r»  , 


THESE  TIMES 


By  LOUIS  UNTERMEYER 

First  Love 

Challenge 

" and  Other  Poets" 

Heinrich  Heine:  Three  Hundred  and 
Twenty-five  Poems 


THESE   TIMES 


BY 


LOUIS   UNTERMEYER 


NEW  YORK 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 
1917 


Ps 


A/7Z- 

T5 


COPYRIGHT,  1917, 

BY 
HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 

Published  March,  1917 


POET  AND  PERSON 


FOR  the  privilege  of  reprinting  many  of  the 
poems  in  this  volume,  the  author  wishes  to 
thank  the  editors  of  The  Century,  The  Yale 
Review,  The  Masses,  The  Forum,  Collier's, 
The  Smart  Set,  Everybody's,  The  Bellman, 
McClure's,  Good  Housekeeping,  Contemporary 
Verse,  The  Poetry  Review,  The  Independent, 
The  Flame,  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse, 
The  New  Republic,  The  Seven  Arts,  and 
other  magazines. 


vli 


CONTENTS 


THESE  TIMES      .      .      .      *      » 

PAGE 

THE  WAVE 

Swimmers     .      .      .      «      . 

3 

Faith      .                           .      . 

.       .       .        7 

On  the  Palisades      .... 

.      .      .        8 

To  the  Child  of  a  Revolutionist  . 

.      .      .      18 

Magic     .      .•'    .'.'..'. 

^i      .         .        20 

Highmount   .       .'.'.'. 

.        .        .        25 

Immortal      

.    .    .    28 

To  a  Weeping  Willow  . 

...      30 

"Still  Life"        .       .      .       . 

12 

Beauty   .      .      .            ..  '    . 

.       .       -      34 

A  Side  Street     .       .       .  '    . 

,       .       .      36 

A  Man  .       .      .      ,      .      .       . 

38 

Comrades      .       .    -  .  '  .  .  ~*    . 

.       .       .      42 

Wind  and  Flame      .  '    .  •  '    . 

."      .       .      43 

Lovers    .       .       .       .       ."     . 

.       .       •      45 

The  Road     .       . 

.       •       .       54 

An  O!d  Maid     .  -    ,:  •    .     V-    i 

.       .       .      56 

Romance  -.-....      . 

...       58 

The  Wave    .     -••_••.-•. 

...      60 

THIRTEEN  PORTRAITS 

The  Dead  Horse      .... 

.       .       .      67 

Portrait  of  an  American 

....      68 

60 

Portrait  of  a  Child   .       .       .       . 

i       .       .       70 

Portrait  of  a  Dilettante   .  •    .      « 

.              .       71 

Portrait  of  a  Patriot       .  ,    .       - 

-*      .       .      73 

ix 

Contents 


Portrait  of  a  Woman 73 

Portrait  of  a  Chopin-Player  and  his  Audience  74 

Portrait  of  a  Jewelry  Drummer  ....  75 

Portrait  of  Three  People 76 

Portrait  of  a  Supreme  Court  Judge  ...  77 

To  a  Self-confessed  Philosopher        ...  78 

To  a  Gentleman-Reformer 80 

HAVENS 

Havens  ..........  83 

Driven 84 

The  Sleepers 85 

Home 88 

Victories 89 

Jonquils 95 

Bacchanal 96 

Joe-Pyeweed 97 

A  Winter  Lyric 99 

Spring zoo 

The  Robber 102 

The  Victor 103 

Truce 104 

DICK 

Concerning  Heaven  .      .      •.      .      «•     :.      .  in 

Concerning  God        ....-.:     -.      .  113 

Concerning  Truths  -.  n  ,f  „  v  .  114 
Concerning  a  Storm  .  ,  .  .  .  .117 
He  Tells  a  Story  .  .  .  -.  ,  .  .119 
Rocks  and  Ocean  ....  -.  .  .123 

BATTLE-CRIES 

"Wake,  God,  and  Arm"      .....  127 

The  Laughers 128 

The  Victory  of  the  Beet-Fields  .      .      .      .133 


Contents  xi 

PAGE 

To  a  War  Poet 135 

The  Old  Deserter 139 

Cell-Mates 143 

Lanes  to  a  Pomeranian  Puppy  Valued  at  3,500 

Dollars »      .      «  146 

Broadway  Silhouette 148 

YOUTH  MORALIZES 

To  My  Mother 151 

In  the  Night 152 

Poetry 153 

Strangers ..  155 

The  Mysteries 156 

The  Poet 157 

The  Youth  Moralizes 158 

A  Portrait 161 

An  Old  Song 162 

A  Singer 164 

Roses 165 

Nineteen  and  April 166 

In  a  Minor  Key 168 

Creation ,      .  169 

A  Glee  for  February       ......  170 

March  Mood      ........  172 

October ..174 

In  Absence 177 

Plaza  Square 178 

TWO  REBELS 

Eve  Speaks 183 

Moses  on  Sinai 194 

REVEILLE 205 


THESE   TIMES: 

"  This  is  my  hour,  the  sum  of  tireless  ages; 

These  times  are  those  for  which  all  Time 
prepared.    \,  - 

And  as  I  come,  the  old  accounts  are  squared ;\o 
Creation  smiles,  accepting  me  as  wages.  Q- 
Not  to  make  good  the  dream  of  fools  and  sages, 

A  pat  millennium,  a  world  ensnared; 

But  with  great  boasts  that  none  has  ever 

dared,  v~ 
/  come:  a  challenge  hurled  at  creeds  and  cages.^ 

"  This  is  my  hour,  mine  these  arrogant  days.  "' 
This  rushing  insolence,  this  vehement  blaze 

Sweeps    through    me    as    the    sea   sweeps 

through  a  breaker.    -C 
Intolerant  of  custom  and  control, 
Aroused  more  for  the  contest  than  the  goal, 

I  am  thrown  forth,  a  menace — and  a  maker." 


Xll 


THE  WAVE 


SWIMMERS 

I  TOOK  the  crazy  short-cut  to  the  bay; 
Over  a  fence  or  two  and  through  a  hedge, 
Jumping  a  private  road,  along  the  edge 
Of  backyards  full  of  drying  wash  it  lay. 
I  ran,  electric  with  elation, 
Sweating,  impetuous  and  wild 
For  a  swift  plunge  in  the  sea  that  smiled, 
Quiet  and  luring,  half  a  mile  away. 
This  was  the  final  thrill,  the  last  sensation 
That    capped    four    hours    of    violence    and 

laughter : 

To  have,  with  casual  friends  and  casual  jokes, 
Hard  sport,    a    cold    swim    and    fresh    linen 

after  .   .  . 

And  now,  the  last  set  being  played  and  over, 
I  hurried  past  the  ruddy  lakes  of  clover; 
I  swung  my  racket  at  astonished  oaks, 
My  arm  still  tingling  from  aggressive  strokes. 


4  Swimmers 

Tennis  was  over  for  the  day — 

I  took  the  leaping  short-cut  to  the  bay. 

Then  the  swift  plunge  into  the  cool,  green 

dark — 
The  windy  waters  rushing  past  me,  through 

me; 

Filled  with  a  sense  of  some  heroic  lark, 
Exulting  in  a  vigor  clean  and  roomy. 
Swiftly  I  rose  to  meet  the  feline  sea 
That  sprang  upon  me  with  a  hundred  claws, 
And  grappled,   pulled  me  down  and  played 

with  me. 
Then,  tense  and  breathless  in  the  tightening 

pause 

When  one  wave  grows  into  a  toppling  acre, 
I  dived  headlong  into  the  foremost  breaker; 
Pitting  against  a  cold  and  turbulent  strife 
The  feverish  intensity  of  life.   .    . 
Out  of  the  foam  I  lurched  and  rode  the  wave, 
Swimming,  hand  over  hand,  against  the  wind ; 
I  felt  the  sea's  vain  pounding,  and  I  grinned 
Knowing  I  was  its  master,  not  its  slave. 
Oh,  the  proud  total  of  those  lusty  hours — 


The,  Wave  5 

The  give  and  take  of  rough  and  vigorous  tus 
sles 

With  happy  sinews  and  rejoicing  muscles; 
The  knowledge  of  my  own  miraculous  powers, 
Feeling  the  force  in  one  small  body  bent 
To  curb  and  tame  this  towering  element.  .  . 

Back  on  the  curving  beach  I  stood  again, 
Facing  the  bath-house,  when  a  group  of  men, 
Stumbling  beneath  some  sort  of  weight,  went 

by. 

I  could  not  see  the  hidden  thing  they  carried; 
I  only  heard :  "  He  never  gave  a  cry — " 
"  Who's  going  to  tell  her  ?— "    "  Yes,  and  they 

just  married — " 
"  Such  a  good  swimmer,  too  "...  and  then 

they  passed; 
Leaving  the  silence  throbbing  and  aghast. 

A  moment  there  my  buoyant  heart  hung  slack, 
And  then  the  glad,  barbaric  blood  came  back 
Singing  a  livelier  tune ;  and  in  my  pulse 
Beat   the   great   wave   that   surges   and   ex 
ults  . 


6  Swimmers 

Why  I  was  there  and  whither  I  must  go 
I  did  not  care.    Enough  for  me  to  know 
The  same  unresting  struggle  and  the  glowing 
Beauty  of  spendthrift  hours,  bravely  showing 
Life,  an  adventure  perilous  and  gay; 
And  Death,  a  long  and  vivid  holiday. 


FAITH 

WHAT  are  we  bound  for  ?    What's  the  yield 

Of  all  this  energy  and  waste? 
Why  do  we  spend  ourselves  and  build 
With  such  an  empty  haste  ? 

Wherefore  the  bravery  we  boast? 

How  can  we  spend  one  laughing  breath 
When  at  the  end  all  things  are  lost 
In  ignorance  and  death?  .   .   . 

The  stars  have  found  a  blazing  course 

In  a  vast  curve  that  cuts  through  space ; 
Enough  for  us  to  feel  that  force 

Swinging  us  through  the  days. 

Enough  that  we  have  strength  to  sing 

And  fight  and  somehow  scorn  the  grave; 
That  Life's  too  bold  and  bright  a  thing 
To  question  or  to  save. 
7 


ON  THE   PALISADES 

AND  still  we  climbed 

Upward  into  those  sheer  and  threatening  cliffs, 

Storming  against  the  sky. 

As  though  to  stop  our  impudent  assault, 

The  sun  laid  great  hot  hands  upon  our  backs, 

And  bent  them  down. 

There  were  no  bluff,  good-humored  winds  to 

push  us  on ; 

There  were  no  shrubs  to  grasp,  no  staff  to  aid — 
Laughter  was  all  we  leaned  on.  .   . 

We  dared  not  turn  to  view  the  dizzy  depth — 
and  then, 

At  last  the  height!  .    .    .  and  the  long  climb 
over. 

And,   laughing  still,   we  drew   long,   panting 
breaths ; 

And  our  pulses  jumped  with  a  proud  and  fool 
ish  thrill, 

8 


The  Wave  9 

As  though  we  had  gained  not  merely  the  top 

of  a  hill, 
But  a  victory. 

Up  here,  the  gaunt  earth  seemed  to  sprawl, 

Stretching  its  legs  beyond  the  cramping  skies, 

And  lie  upon  its  cloudy  back,  and  yawn.  .  . 

Rhythmical  breezes  arose, 

Like  a  strong  man  waking  from  sleep; 

Like  the  measured  breathing  of  day. 

And  the  earth  stirred  and  called  us.  .   . 

An  unseen  path  sprang  from  the  undergrowth, 

And  dodged  among  the  bushes  lightly,  beckon 
ing  us  on. 

Vine-snares  and  rocks  made  way  for  us; 

Daisies  threw  themselves  before  our  feet ; 

The  eager  little  armies  of  the  grass, 

Waving  their  happy  spears,  ran  on  beside 
us; 

And  when  we  slackened,  when  we  thought  of 
resting, 

The  running  grasses  stopped,  the  earth  sank 
back  into  itself, 

Became  a  living  pillow,  a  soft  breast, 


io  On  the  Palisades 

And   every   branch   held   out   its   comforting 

arms.   .    . 
The  winds  pressed  close,  and,  growing  gentle, 

sang  to  us ; 
And  so  we  sat  beneath  the  mothering  trees. 

Languor  leaned  down 

And,  whispering  peace,  drew  us  into  ourselves. 
And  in  the  drowsy  sunlight 
We  mused,  escaping  from  the  clanging  world; 
Happy  to  sink  in  visions  and  soft  fantasies 
For  solace — and  for  strength; 
To  dip  into  a  dream,  as  into  sleep, 
And  wring  new  ardor  from  it,  and  rise  re 
freshed  ; 

Irradiant,  held  by  no  soothing  past, 
Blundering  brightly  on. 

Then,  in  an  unseen  flash, 

The  air  was  sharp  with  energy  again ; 

The  afternoon  tingled  and  snapped,  electric 

with  laughter. 
And  he,  our  friend  and  lover,  our  buoyant, 

swaggering  boy, — 


The  Wave  II 

His  soul  as  fiery  as  his  flaming  hair, — 
Began  to  sing  this  snatch  of  ancient  rhyme 
Caught  from  the  pickers  in  the  cotton-fields : 

"  Lord,  He  thought  He'd  make  a  man, 
(Dese  bones  gwine  ter  rise  again.) 

Made  him  out  er  earth  an'  a  han'ful  er  san'. 
(Dese  bones  gwine  ter  rise  again.) 

"  I  know  it;  indeed,  I  know  it,  brudders; 
I  know  it.    Dese  bones  gwine  ter  rise  again. 

"  Thought  He'd  make  an  'umman  too; 

(Dese  bones  gwine  ter  rise  again.) 
Didn't  know  'zackly  what  ter  do. 

(Dese  bones  gwine  ter  rise  again.) 

"  Tuk  one  rib  fum  Adam's  side, 
(Dese  bones  gwine  ter  rise  again.) 

Made  Miss  Eve  fer  to  be  his  bride. 
(Dese  bones  gwine  ter  rise  again.)" 

Five  hundred  feet  below  us  lay  the  world — 
The  Sunday-colored  crowds  busy  at  play, 


12  On  the  Palisades 

The  children,  the  tawdry  lovers,  and  the  far-off 
tremor  of  ships, 

Came  to  us,  caught  us  out  of  the  blurring  vast- 
ness, 

As  things  remembered  from  dreams.  .   .    . 

And  still  he  sang,  while  we  joined  in  with  child 
like  mirth 

The  deep,  infectious  music  of  a  childlike  race. 

"  Sot  'em  in  a  g  yard  en  rich  an'  fair; 

(Dese  bones  gwine  ter  rise  again.) 
Tol'  'em  dey  could  eat  watever  wuz  dere. 

(Dese  bones  gwine  ter  rise  again.} 

"  Fum  one  tree  you  mus'  not  eat; 

(Dese  bones  gwine  ter  rise  again.) 
Ef  you  do,  you'll  have  ter  skeet! 

(Dese  bones  gwine  ter  rise  again.) 

"  Sarpint  woun'  him  roun'  er  trunk; 

(Dese  bones  gwine  ter  rise  again.) 
At  Miss  Eve  his  eye  he  wunk. 

(Dese  bones  gwine  ter  rise  again.) 


The  Wave  13 

"  I  know  it;  indeed,  I  know  it,  brudders; 
I  know  it — " 


Like  a  blue  snake  uncoiled, 

The  lazy  river,  stretching  between  the  banks, 

Smoothed  out  its  rippling  folds,  splotchy  with 

sunlight, 

And  slept  again,  basking  in  silence. 
A  sea-gull  chattered  stridently; 
We  heard,  breaking  the  rhythms  of  the  song, 
The  cough  of  the  asthmatic  motor-boat 
Spluttering  toward  the  pier.  .   .  . 
And  stillness  again. 

"  Lord,  He  come  wid  a  'ponstrous  voice; 

(Dese  bones  gwine  ter  rise  again.) 
Shook  dis  whole  earth  to  its  joists, 

(Dese  bones  gwine  ter  rise  again.) 

"'Adam,  Adam,  war'  art  thouf 
(Dese  bones  gwine  ter  rise  again.) 

'  Yas,  good  Lord,  I's  a-comin'  now ' 
(Dese  bones  gwine  ter  rise  again.) 


14  On  the  Palisades 

" '  Stole  my  apples,  I  believe — ' 
(Dese  bone  gwine  ter  rise  again.) 

'  No,  Marse  Lord,  I  'speck  'twas  Eve  ' 
(Dese  bones  gwine  ter  rise  again.)" 

The  little  boat  drew  nearer  toward  the  land, 
Still  puffing  like  a  wheezy  runner  out  of  breath. 
And  we  could  see,  crowding  its  narrow  decks, 
The  little  human  midges — remote  and  so  un- 

human ; 
Seeming  to  belong  less  to  life  than  the  fearless 

ants 

That  swarmed  upon  the  remnants  of  our  lunch, 
Heedless  of  all  the  gods  on  whom  they  casually 

dared  to  climb. 

So  far  the  people  seemed !  .  .  . 
And  still  a  faint  stirring  reached  us; 
A  thin  thread  of  music  flung  its  airy  filaments 

toward  heaven, 

Where  we,  the  happy  deities,  sat  enthroned. 
Straining  our  ears  we  caught  the  slender  tone, 
"Darling,  I  am  growing  old;  silver  threads 

among — " 
And  then  it  broke.  . 


The  Wave  15 

And  over  us  rushed  the  warm  flood  of  the 

human  need. 
Out  of  that   frayed,   cheap   song  something 

thrust  out 
And  gripped  us  like  a  warm  and  powerful 

hand. 
No  longer  olympian,  aloof  upon  our  solemn 

eminence, 
We  crumbled  on  our  heights  and  yearned  to 

them. 

The  very  distance  had  a  chill  for  us. — 
What  if,  of  a  sudden,  the  boat  should  topple 

and  plunge; 

And  there  should  rise  a  confused  crying  of  peo 
ple,  and  the  faint  high  voice  of  a  child; 
And  heads  should  bob  in  the  water,  and  sink 

like  rotten  corks — 
And  we,  up  here  so  helpless, 
Unhuman  and  remote.  .  . 

A  twilight  mist  stole  up  the  bay ; 
In  a  nearby  clump  a  young  screech-owl  wailed ; 
A  breeze  blew  strangely  cold,  and,  with  a  covert 
haste, 


1 6  On  the  Palisades 

We  gathered  up  our  things,  whistled  a  breath 

too  loud, 
And   took   the   path   down   to   the   earth   we 

knew — 

The  earth  we  knew,  the  dear  and  casual  world 
Of  sleep  that  followed  struggle,  struggle  that 

called  from  sleep — 
The  harsh,  beloved,  immortal  invitation. 

And,  as  we  walked,  the  song  sprang  up  again ; 

And,  as  we  sang,  the  words  took  on  new 
power  and  majesty; 

The  dying  sun  became  a  part  of  them, 

Gathering  his  fires  in  one  last  singing  beam, 

In  one  bright,  lyric  death. 

The  skies  caught  up  the  chorus,  thundering  it 
back 

From  every  cranny  of  the  windy  heavens ; 

And,  rising  from  the  rocks  and  silent  waters, 

Hailing  the  happy  energy  as  its  own, 

The  flood  of  life  laughed  with  that  gay  convic 
tion: 

I  know  it.     Indeed  I  know  it,  brothers; 

I  know  it!     These  bones  will  rise  again.  .  . 


The  Wave  17 

Lulled  by  no  soft  and  easy  dreams, 

Out  of  the  crowded  agonies  of  birth  on  birth, 

Refreshed  and  radiant, 

These  bones  will  rise. 

Out  of  the  very  arms  of  cradling  Death, 

These  bones ! 


TO  THE  CHILD  OF  A 
REVOLUTIONIST 

(Charles  Epstein,  April  I,  1915) 

CHILD,  you  were  born  with  fighting  in  your 

blood, 
Your  first  breath  was  a  struggle,  sharp  and 

swift; 

Yet  from  the  tumult  and  the  darkening  flood, 
Child,  you  must  lift. 

Splendid  it  is  to  hurl  against  the  strong 

Bulwarks  of  ignorance  a  stronger  stuff; 
Splendid  to  challenge  prejudice  and  wrong — 
But  not  enough. 

Yes,  when  your  angry  faith  defeats  the  foe; 
And,  when  the  last,  deep,  thundering  growl 

is  stilled, 
With  the  same  arms  that  stabbed  and  brought 

them  low, 

Child,  you  must  build ! 
it 


The  Wave  19 

Yet  you  shall  hear  the  soundless  bugles  call ; 

And  there  shall  be  fresh  wars  and  no  release. 
And  you  shall  fight  the  hardest  fight  of  all — 
Even  in  peace. 

There  shall  be  little  rest  and  great  delight ; 
And,    struggling    still,    your   banner    shall 

ascend, 

Battling  for  beauty — that  exalted  fight 
Which  has  no  end. 


MAGIC 

WE  passed  old  farmer  Boothby  in  the  field. 
Rugged  and  straight  he  stood ;  his  body  steeled 
With  stubbornness  and  age.    We  met  his  eyes 
That  never  flinched  or  turned  to  compromise, 
And  "Luck,"  he  cried,  "good  luck!"— and 

waved  an  arm, 

Knotted  and  sailor-like,  such  as  no  farm 
In  all  of  Maine  could  boast  of;  and  away 
He  turned  again  to  pitch  his  new-cut  hay.  .   . 
We  walked  on  leisurely  until  a  bend 
Showed  him  once  more,  now  working  toward 

the  end 

Of  one  great  path ;  wearing  his  eighty  years 
Like  banners  lifted  in  a  wind  of  cheers. 

Then  we  turned  off  abruptly — took  the  road 
Cutting  the  village,  the  one  with  the  command 
ing 

20 


The  Wave  21 

View  of  the  river.    And  we  strode 

More  briskly  now  to  the  long  pier  that  showed 

Where  the   frail  boats  were  kept  at  Indian 

Landing. 

In  the  canoe  we  stepped ;  our  paddles  dipped 
Leisurely    downwards,    and    the    slim    bark 

slipped 

More  on  than  in  the  water.     Smoothly  then 
We  shot  its  nose  against  the  rippling  current, 
Feeling  the  rising  river's  half-deterrent 
Pull  on  the  paddle  as  we  turned  the  blade 
To  keep  from  swerving  round;  while  we  de 
layed 

To  watch  the  curious  wave-eaten  locks; 
Or  pass,  with  lazy  turns,  the  picnic-rocks.  .  .  . 
Blue  eels  flew  under  us,  and  fishes  darted 
A   thousand   ways;   the   once   broad   channel 

shrunk. 

And  over  us  the  wise  and  noble-hearted 
Twilight  leaned  down;  the  sunset  mists  were 

parted,— 

And  we,  with  thoughts  on  tiptoe,  slunk 
Down  the  green,  twisting  alleys  of  the  Ken- 
nebunk. 


22  Magic 

Motionless  in  the  meadows 

The  trees,  the  rocks,  the  cows.  .  . 

And  quiet  dripped  from  the  shadows 
Like  rain  from  heavy  boughs. 

The  tree-toads  started  ringing 
Their  ceaseless  silver  bells; 

A  land-locked  breeze  came  swinging 
Its  censer  of  earthy  smells. 

The  river's  tiny  canon 
Stretched  into  dusky  lands; 

Like  a  dark  and  silent  companion 
Evening  held  out  her  hands. 

Hushed  were  the  dawn's  bravados; 

Loud  noon  was  a  silenced  cry — 
And  quiet  slipped  from  the  shadows 

As  stars  slip  out  of  the  sky.  .  . 

It  must  have  been  an  hour  more,  or  later, 
When,  tramping  homeward  through  the  piney 
wood, 


The  Wave  23 

We  felt  the  years  fly  back;  the  brotherhood 
Of  forests  took  us — and  we  saw  the  satyr! 
There  in  a  pool,  up  to  his  neck,  he  stood 
And  grinned  to  see  us  stare,  incredulous — 
Too  startled  to  remember  fear  or  flight. 
Feeling  the  menace  in  the  crafty  night, 
We   turned   to   run — when   lo,   he   called   to 

us! 

Using  our  very  names  he  called.    We  drew 
With  creaking  courage  down  the  avenue 
Of  birches  till  we  saw,  with  clearing  sight, 
(No  longer  through  a  tricky,  pale-green  light) 
Familiar  turns  and  shrubs,  the  friendly  path, — 
And  Farmer  Boothby  in  his  woodland  bath ! 
The  woods  became  his  background ;  every  tree 
Seemed  part  of  him,  and  stood  erect,  and  shared 
The  beauty  of  that  gnarled  serenity; 
The  quiet  vigor  of  age  that  smiled  and  squared 
Its  shoulders  against  Time   .    .    .  And  even 

night 

Flowed  in  and  out  of  him,  as  though  content 
With  such  a  native  element ; 
Happy  to  move  about  a  spirit  quite 
As  old,  as  placid  and  as  confident  .   .   . 


24  Magic 

Sideways  we  turned.    Still  glistening  and  un 
clad 

He  leaped  up  on  the  bank,  light  as  a  lad, 
His  body  in  the  moonlight  dripping  stars.  .   . 

We  went  on  homeward,  through  the  pasture- 

U-, 


HIGHMOUNT 

Hills,  you  have  answered  the  craving 

That  spurred  me  to  come; 
You  have  opened  your  deep  blue  bosom 

And  taken  me  home. 

The  sea  had  filled  me  with  the  stress 
Of  its  own  restlessness; 
My  voice  was  in  that  angry  roll 
Of  passion  beating  upon  the  world. 
The  ground  beneath  me  shifted;  I  was  swirled 
In  an  implacable  flood  that  howled  to  see 
Its  breakers  rising  in  me, 
A  torrent  rushing  through  my  soul 
And  tearing  things  free 
I  could  not  control. 

A  monstrous  impatience,  a  stubborn  and  vain 
Repetition  of  madness  and  longing,  of  ques 
tion  and  pain, 

Driving  me  up  to  the  brow  of  this  hill — 
Calling  and  questioning  still. 


26  Highmount 

And  you — you  smile 

In  ordered  calm; 

You  wrap  yourself  in  cloudy  contemplation 

while 

The  winds  go  shouting  their  heroic  psalm, 
The  streams  press  lovingly  about  your  feet 
And  trees,  like  birds  escaping  from  the  heat, 
Sit  in  great  flocks  and  fold  their  broad  green 

wings.  .  . 
A  cow  bell  rings 
Like  a  sound  blurred  by  sleep, 
Giving  the  silence  a  rhythm 
That  makes  it  twice  as  deep.  .  . 
Somewhere  a  farm-hand  sings.  .  . 

And  here  you  stand 

Breasting  the  elemental  sea, 

And  put  forth  an  invisible  hand 

To  comfort  me. 

Rooted  in  quiet  confidence,  you  rise 

Above  the  frantic  and  assailing  years ; 

Your  silent  faith  is  louder  than  the  cries ;  « 

The  shattering  fears 

Break  and  subside  when  they  encounter  you. 


The  Wave  27 

You  know  their  doubts,  the  desperate  ques 
tions — 
And  the  answers  too. 

Hills,  you  are  strong;  and  my  burdens 

Are  scattered  like  foam. 
You  have  opened  your  deep,  blue  bosom 

And  taken  me  home. 


IMMORTAL 

DEATH  cannot  keep  me;  even  when  the  dry 
Earth  holds  me  warm,  a  rose-bush  at  my 

head. 

^/-     <_> 

I  shall  not  be  content  to  loaf  and  lie 
Inactive  in  that  strait  and  slothful  bed. 

For  soon  the  happy  restlessness  of  life 

Shall  pierce  me,  stir  me,  make  me  once  again 

Part  of  the  vigor  and  the  freshening  strife, 
Raised  by  the  miracles  of  sun  and  rain. 

And  when  at  length  the  grudging  winters  pass, 
Endowed  with  swift  and  splendid  liberty, 

I  shall  go  forth  in  rich  and  sturdy  grass; 
Shall  scent  the  clover,  call  the  thirsting  bee. 
28 


The  Wave  29 

I  shall  be  in  the  urge  that  bursts  the  pod,  ^ 

Pushing  the  sap  along  the  stiffening  tree; 
That  gives  the  young  branch  leaves,  that  stabs^ 

the  sod.  .  .  v\ 

The  rose  shall  bloom  more  proudly — bearing 
me. 


All  things  shall  feel  and  drink  me  unawares ; ' 
The  scattering  winds,  the  root  that  twists 
and  strives ; 

The  ant,  the  forest — all  that  builds  and  dares. 
And  I  shall  live  not  one,  but  countless  lives. 


TO  A  WEEPING  WILLOW 

You  hypocrite! 

You  sly  deceiver! 

I  have  watched  you  fold  your  hands  and  sit 

With  your  head  bowed  the  slightest  bit, 

And  your  body  bending  and  swaying 

As  though  you  were  praying 

Like  a  devout  and  rapt  believer. 

You  knew  that  folks  were  looking  and  you 

were 

Quite  pleased  with  the  effect  of  it. 
Your  over-mournful  mien; 
Your  meek  and  almost  languid  stir; 
Your  widow's  weeds  of  trailing  green. 
Wearing  a  grief  in  resignation  clad, 
You  seemed  so  chastely,  delicately  sad. 


You  bold,  young  hypocrite 
I  know  you  now ! 

Last  night  when  every  light  was  out, 
30 


The  Wave  31 

I  saw  you  wave  one  beckoning  bough 
And,  with  a  swift  and  passionate  shout, 
The  storm  sprang  up — and  you,  you  exquisite, 
You  laughed  a  welcome  to  that  savage  lout.  .  . 
I  heard  the  thunder  of  his  heavy  boots. 
And  then  in  that  dark,  rushing  weather, 
You  clung  together; 
Safe,  with  your  secret  in  the  night's  great 

cover, 

You  and  your  lover. 
I  saw  his  windy  fingers  in  your  hair; 
I  saw  you  tremble  and  try  to  tear 
Free  from  your  roots 
In  a  headlong  rush  to  him. 
His  face  was  dim. 

But  I  could  hear  his  kisses  in  the  rain  ; 
And  I  could  see  your  arms  clasp  and  unclasp. 
His  rough,  impetuous  grasp 
Shook  you  and  you  let  fall 
Your  torn  and  futile  weeds,  or  flung  them  all 
Joyfully  in  the  air, 
As  if  they  were 
Triumphant  flags,  to  sing  above 
The  stark  and  shameless  victory  of  love! 


"STILL   LIFE" 

(For  Lee  Simonson) 

A  BOWL  of  fruit  upon  a  piece  of  silk: — 
X  Stiff   pears   and   awkward   apples,    with   the 

leaves 

A  crude  and  evil-tempered  sort  of  green. 
Harsh  reds  and  screaming  yellows,  brilliant 

blacks, 

Savagely  massed,  with  strong  and  angry  skill, 
Against  a  furious,  orange-colored  cloth. 
A  canvas  rioting  with  love  and  hate; 
Colors  that  grappled,  snarled  and  lashed  the 

soul.  .   . 

Never  have  I  beheld  such  fierce  contempt, 
Nor  heard  a  voice  so  full  of  vehement  life 
As  this  that  shouted  from  a  bowl  of  fruit, 
High-pitched,  malignant,  lusty  and  perverse — 
Brutal  with  a  triumphant  restlessness 
And  joy   that   cannot   heal   but   laughs   and 

stabs.  ... 


The  Wave  33 

I  never  knew  the  man  that  did  this  thing, 
This  bowl  of  fruit  upon  a  piece  of  silk; 
And  yet  I  know  him  better  than  I  know  my 
friends. 


BEAUTY 

You  shall  not  lead  me,  Beauty — 

No,  on  no  more  passionate  and  never-ending 
quests. 

I  am  tired  of  stumbling  after  you, 

Through  wild,  familiar  forests  and  strange 
bogs; 

Tired  of  breaking  my  heart  following  a  shift 
ing  light. 

Beauty,  you  shall  fly  before  me  no  longer; 
Smiling  and  looking  back  over  your  shoulder, 
Wanton,  trickster,  trifler  with  weak  men; 
Demanding  all  and  giving  nothing  in  return 
But  furious  dreams  and  shattering  visions. 

Beauty,  I  shall  have  you — 
Not  in  imagination  only,  but  in  the  flesh. 
You  will  pursue  me  with  untiring  breath, 
You  will  press  by  my  side  wherever  I  go. 

34 


The  Wave  35 

Even  in  the  muddy  squalor  and  the  thick  welter 

of  ugliness 
You  shall  run  to  me  and  put  your  arms  about 

me  and  cling  to  me; 
And,  try  as  I  will,  you  will  never  be  shaken  off. 

Beauty,  I  know  you  now — 

And  knowing,  I  will  thirst  for  you  no  longer. 

For  I  shall  run  on  recklessly 

And  you  will  follow  after! 


A  SIDE   STREET 

ON  the  warm  Sunday  afternoons 
And  every  evening  in  the  Spring  and  Summer 
When  the  night  hurries  the  late  home-comer 
And  the  air  grows  softer,  and  scraps  of  tunes 
Float  from  the  open  windows  and  jar 
Against  the  voices  of  children  and  the  hum 

of  a  car; 

When  the  city  noises  commingle  and  melt 
With  a  restless  something  half -seen,  half-felt — 
I  see  them  always  there, 

Upon  the  low,  smooth  wall  before  the  church; 
That  row  of  little  girls  who  sit  and  stare 
Like  sparrows  on  a  granite  perch. 
They  come  in  twittering  couples  or  walk  alone 
To  their  gray  bough  of  stone, 
Sometimes  by  twos  and  threes,  sometimes  as 

many  as  five — 

But  always  they  sit  there  on  the  narrow  coping 
Bright-eyed  and  solemn,  scarcely  hoping 
36 


The  Wave  37 

To  see  more  than  what  is  merely  moving  and 

alive.  .  . 
They  hear  the  couples  pass;  the  lisp  of  happy 

feet 
Increases    and    the    night    grows    suddenly 

sweet.  .   . 

Before  the  quiet  church  that  smells  of  death 

They  sit. 

And  Life  sweeps  past  them  with  a  rushing 

breath 

And  reaches  out  and  plucks  them  by  the  hand 
And  calls  them  boldly,  whispering  to  each 
In  some  strange  speech 
They  tremble  to  but  cannot  understand. 
It  thrills  and  troubles  them,  as  one  by  one, 
The  days  run  off  like  water  through  a  sieve; 
While,  with  a  gaze  as  candid  as  the  sun, 
Poignant  and  puzzled  and  inquisitive, 
They  come  and  sit, — 
A  part  of  life  and  yet  apart  from  it.   . 


A  MAN 
(For  My  Father) 

I  LISTENED  to  them  talking,  talking, 
That  tableful  of  keen  and  clever  folk, 
Sputtering  .  .  .  followed  by  a  pale  and  balking 
Sort  of  flash  whenever  some  one  spoke; 
Like  musty  fireworks  or  a  pointless  joke, 
Followed  by  a  pointless,  musty  laughter.    Then 
Without  a  pause,  the  sputtering  once  again.  .  . 
The  air  was  thick  with  epigrams  and  smoke; 
And  underneath  it  all 

It  seemed  that  furtive  things  began  to  crawl, 
Hissing  and  striking  in  the  dark, 
Aiming  at  no  particular  mark, 
And  careless  whom  they  hurt. 
The  petty  jealousies,  the  smiling  hates 
Shot  forth  their  venom  as  they  passed  the 
plates, 


The  Wave  39 

And  hissed  and  struck  again,  aroused,  alert ; 
Using  their  feeble  smartness  as  a  screen 
To  shield  their  poisonous  stabbing,  to  divert 
From  what  was  cowardly  and  black  and  mean. 

Then  I  thought  of  you, 

Your  gentle  soul, 

Your  large  and  quiet  kindness; 

Ready  to  caution  and  console, 

And,  with  an  almost  blindness 

To  what  was  mean  and  low. 

Baseness  you  never  knew; 

You  could  not  think  that  falsehood  was  untrue, 

Nor  that  deceit  would  ever  dare  betray  you. 

You  even  trusted  treachery;  and  so, 

Guileless,  what  guile  or  evil  could  dismay  you  ? 

You  were  for  counsels  rather  than  commands. 

Your    sweetness    was    your    strength,    your 

strength  a  sweetness 

That  drew  all  men,  and  made  reluctant  hands 
Rest  long  upon  your  shoulder. 
Firm,  but  never  proud, 
You  walked  through  sixty  years  as  through 

a  crowd 


4O  A  Man 

Of  friends  who  loved  to  feel  your  warmth,  and 
who, 

Knowing  that  warmth,  knew  you. 

Even  the  casual  beholder 

Could  see  your  fresh  and  generous  complete 
ness, 

Like  dawn  in  a  deep  forest,  growing  and  shin 
ing  through. 

Such  faith  has  soothed  and  armed  you.  It  has 
smiled 

Frankly  and  unashamed  at  Death;  and,  like  a 
child, 

Swayed  half  by  joy  and  half  by  reticence, 

Walking  beside  its  nurse,  you  walk  with  Life; 

Protected  by  your  smile  and  an  immense 

Security  and  simple  confidence. 

Hearing  the  talkers  talk,  I  thought  of  you.  .  . 

And  it  was  like  a  great  wind  blowing 

Over  confused  and  poisonous  places. 

It  was  like  sterile  spaces 

Crowded  with  birds  and  grasses,  soaked  clear 

through 
With  sunlight,  quiet  and  vast  and  clean. 


The  Wave  41 

And  it  was  forests  growing, 
And  it  was  black  things  turning  green. 
And  it  was  laughter  on  a  thousand  faces.  .   . 
It  was,  like  victory  rising  from  defeat, 
The  world  made  well  again,  and  strong — and 
sweet. 


COMRADES 

I  STOPPED;  the  beckoning  roads  urged  on  in 

vain. 

A  dark,  malignant  power  seemed  to  smite 
The  world  with  fearful  silence,  like  a  blight; 
And  earth  became  one  dead  and  haunted  plain. 
The    huddled    woods,    the    crouching    hills 

breathed  pain. 

Only  the  fireflies  moved,  their  timid  light 
Seemed  like  down-hearted  stars,  lost  in  the 

night ; 
Struggling  for  skies  they  never  could  attain. 

And  then  the  genial  moon  sprang  through  a 

cloud, 
As  ruddy  as  a  fat-cheeked  country  boy, 

Spilling  his  mellow  and  impartial  mirth. 

I  faced  the  Silence — and  it  laughed  out  loud 

And  spurred  me  forward,  swinging  hands 

with  Joy; 

Bold    with    the   gay    companionship    of 
Earth. 

42 


WIND   AND   FLAME 

PRESS  with  rude  joy  upon  the  world, 
Persistent  Flow,  resistless  Spark; 

Scatter  your  blows  and  torches,  hurled 
With  bright  creation  through  the  dark. 

Leap,  Wind — with  such  a  rapture  come, 
With  such  a  clean  and  rushing  breath, 

That  cries  will  burst  from  lips  long  dumb, 
Rousing  the  stagnant  hosts  from  death. 

Laugh,  Flame,  gay  offspring  of  the  sun, 
Whose  heat  is  at  the  roots  of  birth ; 

Burn,  till  the  dry  and  dead  things  run 
And  blaze  upon  the  blossoming  earth. 

Mingle  your  quickening  powers ;  contend, 
Ye  two  great  Lovers,  in  your  love; 

Struggling  to  give  all  in  the  end, 
And  giving  all — yet  not  enough.  .   . 

43 


44  Wind  and  Flame 

Till,  springing  from  that  passionate  strife, 
Men  are  reborn  through  ecstasy — 

The  flame  that  burns  the  world  to  life; 
The  wind  that  leaps  to  set  it  free ! 


LOVERS 

i. 

WHAT  had  destroyed  their  edifice  of  love? 

Nothing  but  love. 

They  thought  they  would  live  in  it  forever ; 

Forever  secure. 

They  entrenched  themselves  behind  it 

As  though  it  were  a  fort; 

Prepared  to  withstand  the  sieges  of  the  world. 

And  one  day  they  saw  there  were  great  gaps 
in  the  walls,  the  roof  was  caving  in,  even 
the  foundations  sagged; 

And  they  saw  that  the  whole  house  was  crum 
bling  and  rotting  before  their  eyes. 

For  they  had  built  only  with  love — 

And  love  is  not  enough. 

2. 

When  the  fever  abated,  when  the  first  rapture 

sagged ; 
When  the  hot  years  cooled,  and  passion  became 

a  habit, 

45 


46  Lovers 

And  the  fierce  need  for  each  other  had  passed, 
Then  came  the  fiercer  call  of  the  world,  the 

grappling  encounter  with  it; 
Came  children  and  larger  experiments. 
And  the  man  threw  his  pent-up  energies  into 

the  fight, 
And  went  forth  and  came  back,  weary  and 

untiring.    .    . 
And  the   wife  threw  herself   into  his   arms 

saying  "  This  is  my  world!  " 

And  the  woman  said,  seeing  the  man  lie  down 
beside  her,  and  kiss  her  wearily  and  turn 
away — and  sleep, 

"  Surely  he  has  grown  sick  of  me;  he  desires 
me  no  longer. 

He  has  time  for  other  things,  but  none  for  me. 

He  was  so  different.    Where  is  his  love  ?  " 


And  the  man  said, 

"  She  thinks  only  of  herself,  who  was  once 

so  spendthrift  of  her  interests; 
Like  a  great  stone  she  hangs  herself  upon  me. 


The  Wave  47 

In  the  morning  I  am  burdened  with  her  small 
concerns,  and  at  night  her  heavy  kisses 
weigh  me  down — 

She  was  so  different.    Where  is  her  love  ?  " 


So  the  years  passed. 

And  they  who  had  only  love  between  them, 

And  nothing  else  but  love, 

Lost  even  that. 


"  Keep  us  together,"  they  pleaded,  "  together, 

O  Love. 

"  Our  hands  are  waiting,  eager  to  be  tied, 
And  we  would  have  your  golden  chains  about 

us  forever. 
Keep  us  together,  O  Love." 

They  wore  their  chains  like  a  decoration; 
They  held  them  up  boastfully  for  all  men  to 

see; 
They  patted  and  jingled  them  like  bracelets. 


48  Lovers 

And  one  day,  years  afterward,  when  they  were 

bruised  and  beaten, 
They  saw,  as  though  for  the  first  time,  the 

deep  grooves  in  their  flesh; 
And  how  they,  that  were  once  tied  gladly  and 

with  ornaments, 
Were  now  bound  with  malignant  fetters. 

They  did  not  gasp  or  cry  out. 

They  had  been  far  too  well  schooled; 

Fed  on  stale  forms  and  trained  to  soft  accept 
ance, 

They  did  not  protest.  But,  with  an  infinite 
amount  of  tact, 

They  smiled; 

Boasting  the  chains  that  they  could  never  break. 

4- 

Their  love  was  once  a  fire. 

A  blaze  that  lit  the  world  and  leaped  laugh 
ing  to  the  sky. 

A  flame  that  split  the  heavens,  threatening  the 
stars ; 


The  Wave  49 

That  caught  up  Time  like  a  dry  twig,  and  even 

laid  hold  of  Eternity, 
Bringing  it  to  earth.  .    . 
Caught  in  the  bright  and  quivering  flood, 
They  were  lifted  and  scorched,  snatched  up 

and  cleansed ; 
The  slag  of  manners  and  breeding  was  burned 

away  from  them. 

Poor,  fond,  proper,  ignorant  children — 

What  availed  them  their  blaze. 

"It  is  a  holy  fire,"  they  said,  "  and  who  are 

we  to  touch  it; 
To  feed  it  or  do  aught  but  be  warmed  by  its 

glamour — even  when  it  dies  down. 
A  passion  sent  from  heaven  and  it  should  burn 

forever. 

How  dare  we  heap  fuel  on  it, 
As  though  it  were  stuff  to  cook  with.  .   ." 

Their  love  was  once  a  fire; 

And,  like  a  fire,  it  burnt  itself  out.  .   . 

And  often  these  two  sit  beside  the  gray  ashes, 

And  wonder 


50  Lovers 

Why  fire  cannot  feed  upon  itself — 
Nor  love  on  love. 


5- 

In  the  beginning  was  the  Word 

"  Love, — Love," — it  ran  through  the  skies. 
It  fired  Creation  to  declare  itself 
And  brought  the  seed  out  of  sterility. 
It  sprang  from  nothingness  and  out  of  noth 
ingness  it  called: 

"Love — love.  .  .  . 

I  am  come  to  scatter  life. 

I  shall  Hood  the  void  with  lavish  strength; 

I  shall  impregnate  the  skies. 

"Love — love.  .  .  . 

I  shall  sow  the  suns  like  seeds — 

God  shall  be  made  from  the  need  of  me, 

And  Time  shall  reach  out  from  my  loins." 

And,  as  the  echoes  of  that  confident  singing 

stirred  and  ceased — 
Time  arose,  groping,  and  stumbled  into  the 

light. 


The  Wave  51 

Dawn  stretched  its  limbs  and  grew  musical 

with  its  own  beauty. 
The  moon  rose  with  a  divine  hesitation,  and 

timidly  the  first  stars  came  out. 
And    God    began    creating    with    blundering 

fingers.  .  . 
Poor  clumsy  things  He  made ;  eager,  pathetic 

experiments — 
Flinging  His   failures  away  like  a  petulant 

child;' 

Amused  when  they  turned  into  comets. 
Then  one  day  He  made  the  earth — and  God 

saw  it  was  good. 

And  with  a  loving,  careful  turn  of  the  hand, 
He  set  the  first  man  in  a  garden,  and  fashioned 

his  mate. 

***** 
Adam  looked  up  at  Eve;  she  was  stretching 

and  yawning. 

"  Come,"  said  he,  "  we  might  as  well  sleep. 
We  sit  here,  day  after  day,  looking  at  each 

other;  like  the  animals,  saying  never  a 

word." 
And  Eve  said,  "  What  else  is  there  to  do  ? 


52  Lovers 

The  place  seems  duller  every  hour — 

The  same  birds,  the  same  hills,   the  never- 
changing  vistas,  the  unvarying  thoughts; 

The  tiresome  greeting  of  the  staring  sun,  the 
endless  repetition  of  the  night.  .   . 

Everything  in  the  world  grows  stale; 

Except,"  she  added  hastily,  "  our  love." 

And  Adam  yawned  assent. 

***** 

One  day,  as  God,  with  anxious,  knitted  brows, 

Was  staring  past  the  skies,  an  angel  plucked 
his  sleeve. 

He  was  a  thin,  important-looking  seraph, 

With  a  sharp  nose  and  foxy  eyes. 

"  Look,  God,"  said  he,  "  just  look  at  your  two 
people — 

Isn't  it  terrible,  the  way  they  are  behaving." 

"  I  was  afraid  of  this,"  said  God, 

"  And  yet,  now  it  has  come,  I  am  afraid  no 
longer." 

"  But  look,  God,"  almost  shrieked  the  aroused 
one,  his  wings  quivering  with  excitement, 

"  Look,  she  has  taken  the  fruit — 

And  now  she  is  offering  it  to  him. 


The  Wave  53 

God,"  he  cried,  with  meddlesome  eagerness, 
"  Let  me  go  down  and  stop  them  before  it  is 

too  late ! " 
"  No,"  said  God  with  a  great,  compassionate 

sweetness, 
"  It  is  better  so. 
Let  them  have  wisdom 
For  they  have  only  love. 
And  Love  is  not  enough." 


THE   ROAD 

DOWN  the  long  road  we  went, 

Friends  and  lovers,  we  two. 

Incredibly  content, 

Tingling    somehow    with    the    commonplace 

view; 

Amazed  at  the  heaven's  most  casual  blue. 
Sniffing  the  air  with  astonishment, 
As  though  for  the  first  time  we  knew 
The  sharp  smell  of  the  pine- woods  blent 
With  the  vague  wild  rose's  scent. 

Each  roadside  flower  that  ran  along  with  us 
Suddenly  seemed  a  thing  miraculous; 
Translating  all  its  magic  into  song. 
Even    their    names    were    music;    faint   and 

strong 
They  flashed  godspeed  and  called  from  where 

they  grew : — 

The  feathery  clusters  of  the  Meadow-Rue; 
54 


The  Wave  55 

Wood  Lilies  dancing  by  on  feathery  feet  ; 
The  swaying  spires  of  the  Meadow-Sweet. 
Even  the  shy  Sheep-Laurel  looked  around 
To  stare  with  deep  pink  eyes ;  while,  from  the 

ground, 

Soft  as  the  thing  from  which  it  took  its  name, 
The   Infant's  Breath  with   double  sweetness 

came. 

And  over  all  the  mingled  richness  lay 
The    hot,    sweet    fragrance    of    the    drying 

hay.   .    . 

The  city  slipped  away; 

Its  harshness   melted  as  the  twilight  grew; 

Its  power  was  spent. 

Something  was  walking  with  us,  something 

new  ; 

It  sang  the  world  into  our  hearts  and  sent 
Our  spirits  dancing  to  where  beauty  lay 
Over  the  heavens  like  a  testament. 
There  was  one  star — and  a  great  wash  of 

blue.  .  . 

Down  the  long  road  we  went, 
Friends  and  lovers,  we  two. 


AN   OLD   MAID 

DAY  after  day  she  knits  and  sews, 
Waiting  for  nothing — yet  she  waits; 

Hemmed  in  by  silence,  pansy-rows, 
A  set  of  Lytton,  five  old  plates. 

There  is  a  bird  that  seldom  sings; 
Four  "  classic  "  prints  are  on  the  wall — 

Day  after  day  she  sees  these  things, 
And  that  is  all. 

Great  joys  or  sorrows  never  came 

To  set  her  placid  soul  astir; 
Youth's  leaping  torch,  Love's  sudden  flame 

Were  never  even  lit  for  her. 
The  harsh  years  merely  made  her  wear 

Misfortune  like  a  frail  perfume; 
It  hung  behind  her  on  the  stair 

And  filled  the  room. 
56 


The  Wave  57 

Tending  her  lilac  grief  with  tears 
Her  soul  grew  prim  and  destitute; 

An  empty  guest-room,  locked  for  years, 
Musty  with  dreams  and  orris-root.  .    . 

The  strengthening  cares,  the  kindling  strife 
Of  living  never  swept  her  high; 

For  even  in  the  midst  of  life, 

Life  passed  her  by. 


ROMANCE 

ROMANCE  with  firm  and  eager  tread 

Walked  at  his  shoulder; 
He  never  turned  his  rapt,  poetic  head 

Once  to  behold  her. 

He  sought  her  in  the  skies,  in  dreams, 

In  mystic  meadows; 

He  plunged  through  myths  and  lost  her  face 
in  gleams, 

Clasping  her  shadows. 

"  It  is  this  age,"  he  cried,  "  these  things 

Blind  and  bewilder! 
Weep  for  Romance,  with  frail  and  trembling 

wings ; 

This  world  has  killed  her." 
58 


The  Wave  59 

And  still  he  seeks  her,  warm  or  dead — 

The  quest  enthralling! 
And  still  Romance,  with  strong  and  tireless 

tread, 
Follows  him,  calling.   .    . 

Calling.  .   . 


THE  WAVE 

THERE  was  the  sea  again!    The  laughing  sea, 
Breathing  its  fresh  and  salty  invitation; 
Clapping  its  great,  green  hands  and  calling  me 
To  pit  my  strength  against  its  energy 
And  match  its  vigor  with  my  own  elation. 
Impatiently  it  drummed  upon  the  shore 
And,  having  yearned  for  it  a  year  or  more, 
I  whipped  the  clothing  from  my  eager  body ; 
Flinging  aside  my  threadbare  thoughts,  the 

shoddy 

Fears  and  lethargic  fancies  of  a  day 
Heavy  with  subterfuge  and  the  decay 
Of  sophistries  that  only  cheat  themselves. 
I  heard  the  tide  come  racing  down  the  sands, 
Pounding  a  summons  on  the  rocky  shelves  ; 
A  savage  welcome  in  its  vehement  roar. 
I  sprang  out  on  the  beach  and  slammed  the 

door 

As  though  to  keep  the  humid  world  shut  in. 
60 


The  Wave  6 1 

I  felt  the  salt  winds  sniffing  at  my  skin, 
The  white-caps  urging  me  with  gay  commands ; 
And,  pulled  along  by  unseen,  rescuing  hands, 
I  sprang  into  the  water,  once  more  free.  .   .   . 
Something  had  snapped  the  harsh,   invisible 

bands — 
It  was  the  sea  again,  the  laughing  sea! 

Out  past  the  life-lines  where  the  sea  grew 

calm 

I  floated,  dreaming,  on  a  watery  breast, 
Of  wonder  with  its  secret  unexpressed, 
And  beauty,  singing  its  unwritten  psalm.   .    . 
Its  healing  bathed  me  with  the  balm 
Of  rest. 

I  dreamed — and  then,  shocked  from  my  lan 
guid  mood, 

I  heard  new  rumblings  threaten  and  increase. 
This  deadening  quiet  was  a  false  release ; 
The    clouds    became    an    evil,    black-winged 

brood.   .   . 

I  must  escape  this  torpitude 
Of  peace. 


62  The  Wave 

I  struck  out  swiftly  toward  the  land, 

Hand  over  hand; 
Scooping  at  wastes  of  sea  that  flowed 

Out  of  my  reach, 
Missing  the  silver  line  that  showed 

The  beach. 
I  turned  face  downward  as  I  tried 

A  shorter  stroke; 
The  breakers  flung  me  on  my  side 

And  broke 
Over  me  while  the  spume  was  churned.  .  . 

The  tide  had  turned! 

Desperate  now,  I  threshed  my  arms  about 
In  a  sharp  trudgeon  till  a  burning  pain 
Ran  through  my  ankles  that  kept  plunging  out. 
Harder  I  kicked,  and  slower;  but  in  vain — 
The  tide  kept  pulling,  and  I  made  no  gain. 
The  beach  was  empty  and  my  smothered  shout 
Fell  on  the  thunders  with  no  greater  stir 
Than  leaves  on  warring  waters.    And  the  rain 
Came  with  a  mocking  gentleness,  a  purr 
Of  protest  at  my  struggles.    Doubly  dear 
Though  life  was  then,  the  fervor  of  it  passed; 


The  Wave  63 

The  leaping  radiance  ebbed,  and  even  fear 
No  longer  struck  with  its  insistent  spur. 
This  frantic  burst  of  power  could  not  last. 
I  felt  my  body  slipping — slipping — and 
A  giant  roller  started  toward  the  land, 
Sweeping  the  ocean  with  it  as  it  came 
And  seized  me  with  a  swift  and  iron  hand. 
I  floundered  in  a  world  of  cold,  green  flame 
And  drank  its  icy  hatred ;  heard  my  name 
Under  the  thunder.    I  was  ground  and  tossed 
In  some  malignant  mill-race;  light  was  lost — 
All  I  could  see  were  hands,  dark  hands;  a 

score 

Of  whirling  tentacles  that  lifted,  tore 
And  pulled  me  down  again  .    .    .  and  down 

.  .   .  and  down.  .  . 
I   thought,   is  this  the   way  that   swimmers 

drown?  .  .  . 

Some  one  was  lifting  me;  some  others  bore 
My  limping  body  up  the  reeling  shore 
And  voices  coming  out  of  nowhere  cried 
"That's    what    a    fellow    gets    for    being 
brave.      . " 


64  The  Wave 

"The  trouble  is,  that  there's  a  tricky  tide.  .  . " 
"  Old    man,    you   had    a    pretty    durn   close 
shave.  .   ." 

And  how  it  happened  I  can  never  see. 

All  I  remember  is  a  thundering  wave 

That  came  and  caught  me  in  security 

And,  in  a  breath, 

Despairing  of  a  softer  remedy, 

Forced  me  through  war  and  death 

To  rescue  me. 

Stinging  my  soft  complacence  into  strife; 

Sweeping  me  out  of  languor  back  to  life. 


THIRTEEN    PORTRAITS 


(For  Dudley  F.  Sicker) 


THE   DEAD   HORSE 

ROTTING  it  lay  beneath  the  affable  skies ; 

A  fecund  carrion  thrusting  to  the  air 

Its  powerful  benediction.     Everywhere 
About  it  sang  a  cloud  of  bright,  green  flies. 
Joyfully  strengthened  birds  began  to  rise; 

Great,   shining  beetles  ran,   refreshed  and 
fair, 

And    countless    crawling '  things    swarmed 

gladly  there; 
Called  by  a  death  that  feeds  and  fortifies. 

So,  laughing,  to  that  lively  world  he  came : 
Death,  like  a  lover  at  some  glorious  task, 
Transformed   and   shining  through  this 

quickening  strife. 

His  dark  disguise  could  not  conceal  the  flame ; 
For  there,  behind  his  ineffectual  mask, 
Sparkled  the  fresh  and  conquering  eyes  of 
Life. 


PORTRAIT   OF   AN    AMERICAN 

HE  slobbers  over  sentimental  plays 

And  sniffles  over  sentimental  songs. 

He  tells  you  often  how  he  sadly  longs 
For  the  ideals  of  the  dear,  old  days. 
In  gatherings  he  is  the  first  to  raise 

His  voice  against  '  our  country's  shameful 
wrongs/ 

He  storms  at  greed.    His  hard,  flat  tone  pro 
longs 
The  hymns  and  mumbled  platitudes  of  praise. 

I  heard  him  at  his  office  Friday  past : 

"  Look  here,"  he  said,  "  their  talk  is  all  a 

bluff; 

You  mark  my  words,  this  thing  will  never  last. 
Let  them  walk  out — they'll  come  back  soon 

enough.  .   . 
We'll  have  all  hands  at  work,  and  working 

fast! 

How  do  they  think  we're  running  this — for 
love?" 

68 


PORTRAIT  OF  A  POET 

FIRE  he  sings  of — fierce  and  poignant  flame; 

Passion  that  bids  a  timid  world  be  bold, 

And  Love  that  rides  the  tempest  uncontrolled, 
Scorning  all  customs  with  a  greater  claim. 
Yet,  underneath  the  ink,  his  soul  is  staid; 

Calm,  even  calculating,  shrewd  and  cold. 

His  pain  lives  but  in  print;  his  tears  are 

rolled 
And  packed  in  small,  neat  lyrics  for  the  trade. 

He  hawks  his  passions  of  assorted  brands; 

Romantic  toys  and  tinsels  of  desire; 
Marionettes  that  plead  as  he  commands ; 

Rockets  that  sputter  feebly,  and  expire.  .   . 
And  he  is  pleased  and  proud,  and  warms  his 
hands 

At  the  pale  fireworks  he  takes  for  fire. 


PORTRAIT  OF  A  CHILD 

UNCONSCIOUS  of  amused  and  tolerant  eyes, 
He  sits  among  his  scattered  dreams,  and 

plays. 
True  to  no  one  thing  long;  running  for 

praise 

With  something  less  than  half  begun.    He  tries 

To  build  his  blocks  against  the  furthest  skies. 

They  fall;  his  soldiers  tumble;  but  he  stays 

And  plans  and  struts  and  laughs  at  fresh 

dismays — 
Too  confident  and  busy  to  be  wise. 

His  toys  are  towns  and  temples ;  his  commands 
Bring  forth  vast  armies  trembling  at  his  nod. 

He     shapes     and     shatters     with     impartial 
hands.  .    . 

And,  in  his  crude  and  tireless  play,  I  see 
The  savage,  the  creator,  and  the  god: 

All  that  man  was  and  all  he  hopes  to  be. 

70 


PORTRAIT   OF   A    DILETTANTE 

BRIGHT-EYED  and  chirping  like  a  curious  bird 

From  twig  to  twig,  from  thought  to  thought, 
he  hops. 

Music,  the  stage,  the  arts — he  never  stops  - 
But  off  he  flits,  hunting  the  precious  word. 
All  he  has  read,  all  he  has  ever  heard 

Is  but  a  cue  for  agile  epigrams ; 

A  sipper  and  a  connoisseur  of  shams 
He  echoes  echoes,  garrulous  and  unstirred. 

His  nonchalance  is  proof  against  all  hurt; 
Under  this  shield  his  dapper  soul  is  free 

Of  passion's  terrible  and  sudden  spears. 
The  world  may  howl ;  important  and  alert 
He  goes  through  life  as  through  a  library, 
Looking  for  first  editions  of  the  years. 


PORTRAIT  OF  A  PATRIOT 

"  I  DO  not  want  to  speak  of  it,"  he  said, 
And  told  me  that  the  war  was  a  disgrace, 
A  blot,  I  think  he  said,  upon  the  face 

Of  Progress.    Man  must  hang  his  head 

Each  morning  when  he  reads  of  men  left  dead 
Upon  the  blood-soaked  fields.  Only  one  place 
Preserves  the  high  ideals  of  the  race — 

America,  where  bullets  turn  to  bread. 

"  Why,  look,"  he  warmed  up  to  his  noble  text, 
"  Look  at  this  country's  great  neutrality ; 
And  how  we've  prospered  in  it.     If  that 

strife 

Continues  through  this  summer  and  the  next, 
No  one  can  tell  how  prosperous  we'll  be.  .  . 
Just  one  more  year — and  we'll  be  made 
for  life!" 


PORTRAIT  OF  A  WOMAN 

HER  husband  feels  her  as  a  soothing  spur, 

A  golden  summons  to  a  joyful  strife. 

Some  few  observe  her  as  the  careful  wife 
Laying  two  lives  away  in  lavender. 
A  poet  knows  her  as  a  breath  of  myrrh; 

A  tradesman  as  an  ever-sharpened  knife ; 

Some  see  the  artist  bargaining  with  life.  .  , 
And  these  are  but  the  lightest  hints  of  her. 

For  she  is  Girl  and  Priestess — and  her  hands, 
Reckless  and  wise,  snatch  at  the  quickening 

brands 

And  bear  them  like  rejoicing  flags  unfurled. 
Laughing,  she  scatters  life;  she  feeds  the  flames 
That  leap  through  casual  thoughts  and  tawdry 

aims, 

And  burns  the  slag  clean  from  the  rusting 
world. 


73 


PORTRAIT 

OF  A  CHOPIN-PLAYER  AND 
HIS  AUDIENCE 

His  fingers  press  upon  the  keys  as  though 
His  hands  were  dripping  thick  and  heavy 

sirup. 
The  sweetness  does  not  cloy;  it  seems  to 

stir  up 

All  sorts  of  greasy  sentiments  that  grow 
Maudlin  and  morbid.    Tears  begin  to  flow ; 
Young  girls  breathe  heavily  or  sob  unchid- 

den; 

Matrons  and  spinsters  dream  of  things  for 
bidden.  .  . 
He  piles  the  pathos  on — adagio. 

The  concert  ends.    The  powder-puffs  come  out. 
A  dying  buzz — and  people  go  about 

Their  idleness  or  drudgery  as  before.  .   . 
And  in  his  taxi  no  one  hears  him  say, 
"  I'll  have  to  dye  my  hair ;  it's  almost  gray. 

There  was  a  time  they  used  to  weep  much 
more." 

74 


PORTRAIT  OF  A  JEWELRY 
DRUMMER 

'/•  s  \-  S   I  /  I  */ 

ADVENTURE  hangs  about  him,  like  a  friend ;  ^ 

Romance  he  buys  and  sells  on  six  months' 
time. 

In  his  small  wallet  lust  and  heedless  crime 
Come  to  a  safe  and  profitable  end. 
Rubies,  torn  from  the  eyes  of  idols,  blend 

With  virgin  pearls,  fresh  from  the  ageless 
slime. 

And  lives  and  hazards,  perilous  and  sublime, 
Are  this  man's  power — and  his  dividend. 

The  diver's  death  becomes  his  daily  bread; 
The  smallest  of  his  opals  burn  and  glow 
With     all     the     stubborn     agonies     of 

strife.  .  . 
We  spoke  of  men  and  hardships.    "  Well,"  he 

said, 

"  This  traveling  is  the  meanest  work  I  know.  ' 
Small  towns  and  sleepers ;  it's  a  dog's  own 
life!" 

75 


PORTRAIT    OF    THREE    PEOPLE 

MONSTROUS,  misshapen,  huge  and  unconcerned 
She    sways   and   bulges   through   the   oily 

crowd. 
Her  heavy  patience,  touched  with  something 

proud, 

Gives  her  a  dignity  she  never  learned. 
Her  path  is  strewn  with  rags  and  overturned 
Ruins  of  garbage.    Dumb  but  never  cowed 
She  bears  her  throbbing  weight,  as  though 

endowed 

With  the  same  fires  with  which  the  Virgin 
burned. 

Near  her  a  soldier  saunters  at  his  ease, 

Smelling   of   swift   destruction,    foul   with 

strife. 

Yet  he  is  clear-eyed,  likes  a  bit  of  chaff; 
There's  humor  in  him  too.    So  when  he  sees 
This  mountain  slowly  laboring  toward  life, 

He  nudges  his  companion,  and  they  laugh. 
76 


PORTRAIT 
OF  A  SUPREME  COURT  JUDGE 

How  well  this  figure  represents  the  Law — 
This  pose  of  neuter  justice,  sterile  cant; 

This  Roman  Emperor  with  the  iron  jaw, 
Wrapped  in  the  black  silk  of  a  maiden-aunt. 


7Jr 


TO  A  SELF-CONFESSED 
PHILOSOPHER 

Is  it  your  pride  sustains  you  most 

When    other    men's    conceit    sounds    hol 
low.  .   , 
"  My  school's  the  world ! "  you  often  boast 

And  wait  for  the  applause  to  follow. 

With  any  casual  phrase,  you  love 

To  strike  a  noble  attitude  ; 
And  with  what  eloquence  you  prove 

Some  stale  and  standard  platitude! 

Is  there  no  cure  for  this  offense 

That  human  flesh,  it  seems,  is  heir  to; 

This  philosophic  flatulence 
That  all  your  underlings  must  swear  to! 

Is  there  no  end  to  your  superb 
Power  of  rhetoric  and  inaction? 

Can  nothing  shatter,  nothing  curb 
Your  sleek  and  smiling  satisfaction? 

78 


Thirteen  Portraits  79 

In  soft  emotions  you  lie  curled 

With  all  your  placid  creeds  beside  you; 

And  blink  approval  on  a  world 

You  like  to  think  has  taught  and  tried  you. 

The  world,  you  say,  has  been  your  school — 
But  have  you  never  contemplated, 

Oh,  positive  and  pompous  fool, 
How  badly  you've  been  educated ! 


TO    A   GENTLEMAN-REFORMER 

KEEP  it — your  torn  and  rotting  decency, 
Your  antique  toga  with  its  quaint  misfit. 
Keep  it;  the  world  has  little  use  for  it, 

Or  swaddled  truths  too  frightened  to  be  free. 

This  is  no  age  for  sick  humility, 

Or  queasy  goodness  without  strength  enough 
To  dare  the  keen  and  hungry  edge  of  love, 

Or  fear  that  wraps  itself  in  chastity. 

Hide  in  its  crumbling  folds.    How  should  you 

know 
That  virtue  may  be  dirty  and  can  grow 

Furtive  and  festering  in  a  mind  obscene. 
How  should  you  know  the  world's  glad,  vulgar 

heart ; 

The  sensual  health  that  is  the  richest  part 
Of  life;  so  frankly  carnal — and  so  clean. 


80 


HAVENS 


(For  Jean) 


HAVENS 

Beloved,  let  me  grope  and  lie 

In  the  triumphant  reaches  of  your 
soul; 

That  singing  and  barbaric  sky 
Which  is  my  goal. 

Age  cannot  make  the  way  less  fresh; 

And  bar  me  if  I  ever  dare  despise 
The  close  and  friendly  house  of  flesh 

Through  which  it  lies. 

But  ever  slowly  let  me  move 

Through  twisting  roads  of  passion, 
gates  of  care; 

And  the  dark  labyrinth  of  love 
That  leads  me  there. 


«3 


DRIVEN 

WHAT  swords  have  clashed  between  us;  yes, 
What  blows,  forgotten  and  forgiven. 

With  what  a  storm  of  stubbornness 

We    thought    we    drove — when    we    were 
driven. 

Down  to  what  wars  we  two  have  gone 

Toward  peace,  that  cool  and  quiet  splendor. 

And  must  we  still  go  fighting  on 
After  the  ultimate  surrender? 

Well,  let  it  whirl  about  our  lives 

Through   breathless   days   and   thundering 

weather — 
I  do  not  fear  whatever  drives 

As  long  as  we  are  driven  together. 


THE   SLEEPERS 

MOONLIGHT  and  music  and  the  sound  of  waves 

Reached  out  and  held  us  there  ; 

Each  close  to  each, 

Upon  the  night-blurred  and  deserted  beach. 

She  sang  an  old,  imperishable  air 

Softly  .   .   .  and  from  forgotten  graves 

A  mist  of  memories  arose 

As  if  in  answer  to  an  unspoken  call. 

A  soft  and  intimate  breeze 

Crooned  over  us  and  over  all 

The  blue  and  faintly-singing  spaces; 

Over  the  quiet  and  the  salty  balm, 

Over  the  velvet  skies  and  seas, 

Over  our  half -concealed  and  cloudy  faces. 

That  strange  and  rosy  wind 

Mellowed  the  distance;  smoothing  down  the 

thinned, 

Sharp  edges  of  the  sickle-moon; 
Bringing  the  night  so  close 
85 


86  The  Sleepers 

That  when  our  fingers  clasped 

We  grasped  and  held  its  greatness  and  calm 

Warmly  within  each  palm. 

And,  as  her  head  drooped  back, 
And  the  breath  of  the  world  came  slower, 
A  drowsy  voice  grew  out  of  the  black 
Night  as  her  voice  sank  lower. 
Something  caught  her  unspoken  word, 
It  answered  and  mingled  with  her; 
Their  breathing  blended  and  I  heard 
The  voice  of  Sleep  and  her  sleepy  voice 
Singing  together.  .    . 

The  wind  crept  up  on  the  sands  and  stopped; 
The  voices  dropped. 

Our  fingers  loosened;  the  night  imposed 
The  weight  of  all  sleepers  upon  us  and  closed 
Our  heavy  eyes. 

Then,  as  we  lay, 

I  stretched  my  arm  into  the  skies 

And  plunged  it  through  that  shining  spray, 

Pushing  my  shoulders  through  the  cloudy  bars, 

And  grasped  the  moon  like  a  scythe. 


Havens  87 

I  flung  my  swaying  body  in  a  lithe 

And  rhythmic  play, 

Cutting  down  great,  wide  swathes  of  stars; 

Reaping  the  heavens  with  a  blithe 

Song  till  the  blue  fields  were  bare. 

Then,  when  the  last  gold  bud  was  shaken  free 

And  all  the  silver  flowers  of  the  night 

Had  rained  and  heaped  about  her  there, 

I  threw  the  bright  blade  into  the  sea.  .   . 

There  was  a  hissing  and  an  end  of  light. 
And  we  slept — dreamlessly. 


HOME 

Is  it  a  tribute  or  betrayal  when 

Turning   from   all   the   sweet,   accustomed 

ways, 

I  leave  your  lips  and  eyes  to  seek  you  in 
Some  other  face. 

Why  am  I  searching  after  what  I  have  ? 

And  going  far  to  find  the  near  at  hand? 
I  do  not  know.     I  only  know  I  crave 
To  find  you  at  the  end. 

I  only  know  that  love  has  many  a  hearth, 

That  hunger  has  an  endless  path  to  roam, 
And  beauty  is  the  dream  that  drives  the  earth 
And  leads  me  home. 


88 


VICTORIES 

i. 

BLOW  trumpets;  roll  drums — 
The  straining  banners  snap  and  tug  at  their 

ropes ; 

Now  the  flags  of  my  spirit  leap, 
And  my  heart  is  a  town  full  of  cheering. 
Sing  boldly,  oh  my  soul ; 

Sing  battle-hymns,  now  that  the  battle  is  over, 
Sing  praises  and  bravuras. 

Long  have  I  waited  for  this  day.  .   . 
Often  have  I  said  "  It  will  come  to-morrow ; 
And  failing  then,  surely  the  morning  after." 
Often  I  thought  I  saw  it  in  her  looks,  and 

then  I  said  "  At  last — it  is  to-day !  " 
Often  it  seemed  I  read  the  miraculous  news — 
Her  face,  her  talk  was  full  of  hints  of  it. 
But    they    were   only   hints    and    lights    and 

promises ; 

89 


90  Victories 

Signals   that   flashed   through   the   long  and 

ghostly  struggle 
Where  she  was  righting  grimly — and  alone. 

But  now  the  clouds  are  rolled  back ; 

And  out  of  a  morbid  darkness, 

See,  she  emerges. 

Brightly  she  comes 

With  cleared  eyes  and  a  laughing  mouth, 

And  hands  that  carry  love  as  a  child  bears 

flowers. 

Let  my  songs  run  before  me  to  greet  her. 
Sing  praises,  oh  my  soul; 
Sing,  as  she  stands  there,  flushed  and  confident, 
Watching,  over  her  shoulder,  the  rout  of  her 

confused  and  retreating  fears. 
Sing — she  is  victorious  and  transfigured; 
Sing — she  has  conquered  herself! 

2. 

Listen,  my  love  and  my  victorious  companion, 

Let  me  confess 

When  you  came  out  of  the  struggle  without  a 

scar, 
I  was  ashamed. 


Havens  9 1 

Your  rallying  strength,  your  unsuspected  cour 
age 

Were  a  reproach  to  me. 

When  you  passed,  with  your  hair  flying  like 
happy  pennants  in  the  wind, 

Your  shining  spirits  seemed  to  cry  out : 

"  See,  we  have  triumphed  without  you !  " 

Yet  I  was  glad — 

Glad  that  I  had  not  made  the  fight  less  hard ; 

Glad  that  the  old,  hereditary  ghosts, 

By  your  strong  stubbornness  and  stronger  faith 

Had  been  dispelled  forever.  .   . 

Watching  you  tear  veil  after  veil  and  scatter 

them  light-heartedly; 
Seeing  you  look  at  last  on  things,  not  shadows 

and  distortions; 
Hearing  you  laugh  out  loud, 
I  knew,  victorious  companion, 
None  but  ourselves  can  fight  the  battles  of  our 

selves ; 

And  I  was  glad, 
Knowing  your  victory  was  real — because  it  was 

your  own. 


92  Victories 

3- 
May — and  the  rush  of  love 

Over  an  eager  world. 
The  earth,  like  a  young  bride,  trembling 
Under  the  hot  hands  of  Spring. 

May — and  the  push  of  winds 

Tender,  resistless  and  wild. 
And  Spring  pressing  close,  like  a  lover 

With  gentle  and  conquering  strength. 

May — and  the  quivering  night 
Beating  upon  us  and  through  us. 

Hold  back  no  longer  ...  no  longer.  .   . 
Come  .  .  .  with  the  rush  of  love.  .  . 

4- 

You  remember  that  night  after  they  had  all 
gone, 

We  went  down  the  twisting  pine-road  and  sat 
by  the  shore. 

The  beach  was  deserted, 

The  bathing-houses  seemed  like  a  row  of  gro 
tesquely  marching  tombstones; 


Havens  93 

The  sea  was  tumbled  grass  in  an  old  grave 
yard, 

And  even  the  stars  seemed  strangely  lifeless 
and  remote. 

Nothing  of  life  was  around  us; 

Only  a  weary  night-bird  circling  disconsolate. 

We  seemed  to  be  planted  in  sterile  space, 
Far  off  and  forgotten. 
Then  the  moon  rose  over  the  smooth  sea, 
Making  a  path  on  those  blue-marbled  waters 
So  straight,  so  substantial,  it  seemed  we  could 

walk  on  it; 

And  walking  thus,  walk  out  beyond  the  world. 
Pillowed  upon  your  soothing  breasts 
Hay, 
Half  hoping  for  such  a  calm  and  mystical 

escape.  .  . 

How  long  ago  it  seems. 

Two  years — two  million  years  from  our  desire. 
There  is  no  end  for  us  now,  but  radiant  and 
fresh  beginnings. 


94  Victories 

We  have  achieved  a  firmer  peace  than  death's ; 

Not  an  escape  from  life, 

But  daily,  for  the  long  and  spirited  encounter, 

The  peace  that  spurs,  that  strengthens and 

fights  on! 

5- 

Blow  trumpets;  roll  drums — 

Give  her  to  me,  oh  May,  triumphant  and  trans 
figured. 

Earth,  like  a  soft-cheeked  mother,  shall  em 
brace  us, 

And  there  shall  be  new  bride-songs  and  holier 
bridals. 

My  arms  shall  be  strong  with  rejoicings, 

My  love  shall  cry  hosannas ! 

And  heaven  shall  be  made  roomier  for  our 
nuptials.  .  . 

Withhold  no  longer;  no  longer. 

Give  her  to  me,  oh  May,  as  though  for  the 
first  time — 

Mine  more  than  ever ! 


JONQUILS 

A  HANDFUL  of  slender  jonquils 

With  candid  and  innocent  eyes — 
And  then,  from  the  mists  of  my  boyhood, 
I  feel  it  arise.  .  . 

An  evening  of  words  and  evasions, 
And  fingers  that  grope  to  explain ; 
Long  looks  and  a  longer  silence, 

And  the  hush  of  the  rain. 

Too  holy  for  tears  or  for  laughter, 

Till — staring  at  us  with  surprise — 
The  wide-mouthed,  incredulous  jonquils, 
With  innocent  eyes. 


95 


BACCHANAL 

TAKE  a  sip  of  April, 

Quaff  the  fiery  Spring, 
Till  you  thrill  with  joyous  envy 

Many  a  buried  king. 
Death's  a  giddy  precipice; 

Dance  upon  its  brink — 
Here  is  Life,  a  brimming  goblet; 

Drink! 

Toss  off  winds  and  laughter, 

Music  and  delight, 
While  the  moon's  a  great  pearl  melting 

In  the  cup  of  night. 
Pour  the  wild  libation 

Gaily  ere  you  sink; 
Here's  the  world's  immortal  madness — 

Drink! 


JOE-PYEWEED 

AND  the  name  brings  back  those  kindly  hills 
And  the  drowsing  life  so  new  to  me; 

And  the  welcome  that  those  purple  blossoms 
With  their  tiny  trumpets  blew  to  me. 

Stout   and   tall,   they   raised   their   clustered 

heads, 

Leaping,  as  a  lusty  fellow  would, 
Through  the  lowlands,  down  the  twisting  cow- 
paths  ; 
Running  past  the  green  and  yellow  wood. 

How  they  come  again — those  rambling  roads; 

And  the  weeds'  wild  jewels  glowing  there. 
Richer  than  a  Paradise  of  flowers 

Was  that  bit  of  pasture  growing  there. 

Weeds — the  very  names  call  up  those  faint 
Half-forgotten  smells  and  cries  again.  .   . 

Weeds — like  some  old  charm,  I  say  them  over, 
And  the  rolling  Berkshires  rise  again : 

97 


98  Joe-Pyeweed 

Basil,  Boneset,  Toadflax,  Tansy, 
Weeds  of  every  form  and  fancy; 
Milk-weed,  Mullein,  Loose-strife,  Jewel-weed, 
Mustard,  Thimble-weed,  Tear-thumb  (a  cruel 

weed). 

Clovers  in  all  sorts — Nonesuch,  Melilot; 
Staring  Buttercups,  a  bold  and  yellow  lot. 
Daisies  rioting  about  the  place 
With   black-eyed   Susan  and   Queen   Anne's 

Lace.  .   . 

Names — they  blossom  into  colored  hills ; 

Hills  whose  rousing  beauty  flows  to  me.  .  . 
And  with  all  its  soundless,  purple  trumpets, 

Lo,  the  Joe-Pyeweed  still  blows  to  me ! 


A  WINTER   LYRIC 

THE  winter  winds  were  swift  and  stinging, 
The  day  was  growing  old  and  dark ; 
And  yet  within  the  icy  park 

Birds  in  the  leafless  trees  were  singing. 

Somehow  the  cold  was  not  so  clinging, 
And  homing  people  stopped  to  stare 
At  all  the  brave  hearts  clustered  there — 

Birds  in  the  leafless  trees !     And  singing ! 

Yes,  Spring  is  sweet  with  new  songs  ringing, 
And  Summer's  pageant  moves  all  men ; 
But  my  heart  leaps  to  Winter  when 

Birds  in  the  leafless  trees  are  singing. 


SPRING 
(A  Color  Print  by  Hiroshige) 

A  YELLOW  raft  sails  up  the  bluest  stream 
And  cherry-blossoms  cloud  the  shore  with 
pink; 

The  sky  grows  clearer  with  a  curious  gleam 
And  boys  come  playing  to  the  river  brink. 

A  grayish  gull  descends  to  preen  and  prink. 
Far  off,  a  singing  plowman  drives  his  team — 
A  yellow  raft  sails  up  the  bluest  stream 

And   cherry-blossoms   cloud   the   shore   with 
pink.  .   . 

Oh,  to  be  there ;  far  from  this  tangled  scheme 
Of  strident  days  and  nights  that  flare  and 
sink. 

100 


Havens  101 

Beauty  shall  lift  us  with  a  colored  dream; 

And,  as  we  muse,  too  rapt  and  wise  to  think, 
A  yellow  raft  sails  up  the  bluest  stream 

And  cherry-blossoms  cloud  the  shore  with 
pink. 


THE  ROBBER 

I  FEAR  the  night,  the  ruthless  night — 
It  reaches  down  its  great,  dark  hands 
And  takes  the  color  from  the  day, 
A  world  of  children  from  their  play, 
And  laughter  from  all  lands. 

I  fear  the  night,  the  stealthy  night — 
It  creeps  up  noiselessly,  and  soon 
It  robs  the  housetops  of  their  gold ; 
It  grasps  the  sun  and  leaves — behold ! 
That  dull  and  leaden  moon.  .  . 

I  fear  the  night,  the  envious  night — 
Its  jealous  stars;  its  sharp-eyed  crew.  .   . 
Oh,  hide  your  head  upon  my  breast; 
Or  Night,  that  steals  the  whole  world's 

best, 
May  see  and  covet  you ! 


102 


THE  VICTOR 

BRUISED  in  the  grapple  with  trade, 

Scourged  with  its  merciless  whips, 
Love,  I  shall  combat  its  strength  unafraid, 

Knowing  I  still  have  your  lips. 

, 

Bound  to  the  torturing  wheel, 

Sold,  like  a  slave,  in  the  mart, 
Nothing  can  break  me,  oh  love,  while  I  feel 

Your  cool  hands  and  fiery  heart. 

Cries  and  contemptuous  pain — 
War  in  a  world  of  unrest.  .   . 

Give  me  the  battle  again  and  again 
With  the  conquering  hope  of  your  breast ! 


103 


TRUCE 

WE  lay  on  the  couch  by  the  window,  almost 

asleep ; 

Watching  the  snow. 

She  on  my  breast,  a  lovely  and  luminous  heap, 
With  her  head  drooping  low. 
Except  for  one  singing  candle's  flame, 
And  our  drowsy  whispers,  there  was  no  stir  in 

the  air. 

And,  as  she  smiled  and  snuggled  closer  there, 
The  Dusk  crept  up  and  flowed  into  the  room. 
Softly,  with  reverent  hand,  it  touched  her  hair 
That,  like  a  soft  brown  flower,  seemed  to  bloom 
In  the  deep-lilac  gloom. 
Kindly  it  came 
And  laid  its  blurring  fingers  on  the  sharp  edges 

of  things; 
On  books  and  chairs  and  figured  coverings, 

And  all  once  clear  and  delicately  wrought. 
104 


Havens  105 

Then,  almost  hastily, 

As  though  with  a  last,  merciful  tLought, 

It  covered,   with  its  hand,   the   sharp,   white 

square 

That  stood  out  in  the  corner  where 
The  evening  paper  had  been  flung — 
Blotting  the  screaming  type  that  leaped  and 

sung; 

Hushed  by  no  horror  or  shame.  .  . 
The  brutal  head-lines  faded ;  and  the  room 
Grew  softer  in  the  gloom. 

She  and  I  on  the  couch  by  the  window,  watch 
ing  the  snow; 
She  half -asleep  on  my  breast,  and  her  ringers 

tangled  in  mine. 

And  still  in  the  room,  the  uncertain  and  slow 
Twilight  paused  with  its  purple  half-shadows, 

half -shine. 

Then  stopped — as  if  seeing  her  it  could  go 
No  further,  but  stood  in  a  trembling  glow, 
Like  a  pilgrim  stumbling  upon  a  shrine.  .  . 

Quiet — a  reverent  and  unspoken  psalm. 
Quiet — as  deep-toned  as  a  distant  temple-bell 


io6  Truce 

Spreading  its  measured  calm. 

Even  the  streets  felt  the  beneficent  balm — 

The  shops  were  golden  niches,  bright 

With  squares  of  cheerful  light. 

The  people  passed,  wrapped  in  a  genial  spell ; 

Transfigured  by  the  screening  snow  that  fell, 

Fluttering  its  white 

And  great  compassionate  wings, 

Hiding  the  black  world  and  all  sharp-edged 

things. 

Quiet — ineffable  and  complete.  .   . 
Except,  far  down  the  street, 
A  murmur  jarring  through  the  hush,  and  then 
A  newsboy's  treble,  thin  and  dying  out : 
"  Extra — War  News  Extra  .  .  .All  about — " 
And  silence  once  again. 

Closer  the  skies  were  drawn,  closer  the  street; 
And  stars  began  to  breathe  again  and  men 

rejoice, 

While  Beauty  rose  up  to  defeat 
That  boy's  high  voice, 
With  its  echo  and  threat  of  a  world  unreal; 
,Too  terrible  to  reveal.  .  . 


Havens  107 

And  her  fingers  tightened  in  mine;  slowly  she 

opened  her  eyes ; 
And  the  laugh  of  our  child  rang  out,  and  a  blue 

rift  broke  in  the  skies. 
And  the  clouds,  like  white  banners  of  truce, 

hung  gently  above, 

With  a  promise  of  rest  and  release.  .  . 
And  the  world,  like  a  soft-breasted  mother, 

was  an  intimate  heaven  of  love, 
And  a  pillow  of  peace. 


DICK 


(For  RICHARD 
Son  and  Collaborator) 


CONCERNING   HEAVEN 

WELL,  Heaven's  hard  to  understand — 
But  it's  a  kind  of  great,  big  land 

All  full  of  gold  and  glory; 
With  rivers  green  and  pink  and  red, 
And  houses  made  of  gingerbread 

Like  in  the  fairy  story. 

The  floors  they  use  are  made  of  clouds ; 

And  there  are  crowds  and  crowds  and  crowds 

Who  sing  and  dance  till  seven. 
But  then  they  must  keep  still  because 
God  and  the  Dream-Man  and  Santa  Claus 

Sleep  in  the  big  House  of  Heaven. 

God,  He  sleeps  on  the  first  two  floors; 

And  the  Dream-Man  sleeps  above  Him  and 

snores, 

A  tired-out  story-teller; 
And  Santa  Claus,  who  hates  the  noise, 
He  sleeps  on  the  roof  with  all  of  his  toys — 
And  the  angels  live  in  the  cellar. 
in 


112  Concerning  Heaven 

Now,  the  angels  never  sleep  a  wink, 
They're  much  too  busy  to  stop  to  think 

Or  play  on  harps  and  guitars. 
They're  always  cleaning  the  sun  at  night, 
And  all  day  long,  to  keep  them  bright, 

They  polish  the  moon  and  the  stars. 

They  clean  the  streets  and  they  tidy  the  rooms, 
And  they  sweep  out  Heaven  with  a  million 
brooms, 

And  they  hurry  each  other  when  they  nod. 
And  they  work  so  fast  that  they  almost  fall — 
But  God  just  sits  and  never  works  at  all ; 

And  that's  because  He's  God ! 


CONCERNING  GOD 

WELL,  God  does  nothing  all  day  long 

But  He  sits  and  sits  in  His  chair ; 
His  face  is  as  silver  and  big  as  the  moon, 
And  He  wears  all  the  stars  in  His  hair. 
He's  very  large  and  happy  and  He's  very,  very 

old; 

And  half  His  hair  is  purple  and  the  other  half 
is  gold. 

He  wears  no  crown  but  a  big,  tall  hat 

With  feathers  three  miles  high; 
And  they  have  a  hundred  colors  that  are  far 

more  bright 

Than  all  the  other  colors  in  the  sky. 
And  they're  tied  to  His  hat  with  a  kind  of  vel 
vet  rag — 

And  right  in  the  middle  of  them  all  He  wears  a 
great,  big  American  flag! 


CONCERNING  TRUTHS 

THEY  always  said  the  moon  was  far  away, 

A  hundred  miles  or  more  up  in  the  skies. 
They  said  he  never  could  come  down  to  play. 
They  said  a  lot  of  things  that  sounded  wise — 

But  they  were  lies. 
So  when  folks  say  the  moon  is  dead 
I  do  not  even  shake  my  head; 
I  only  laugh  because  I  know 
It  isn't  so. 

Only  the  other  night 

I  watched  and  saw  how  light 

He  leaped  down  from  the  skies. 

And  then,  with  crinkling  eyes, 

That  seemed  to  say  "  I'm  coming," 

He  danced  and  started  humming 

So  gaily  and  so  brightly 

That  Wendy,  who  sleeps  lightly, 

(She's  our  canary)  woke 

And  scolded  when  she  spoke. 
114 


Dick  115 

But  on  he  came — so  near 

That  he  could  almost  peer 

Into  my  room  and  see 

Wendy,  the  toys  and  me. 

Closer  he  came,  until 

His  hands  were  on  the  sill; 

They  stretched  and  tried  to  get 

My  pail,  my  soldier  set, 

And,  as  he  touched  my  broom, 

He  jumped  into  the  room! 

I  knew  then  right  away 

He  had  come  down  to  play — 

And  so  without  a  word, 

(For  mother  might  have  heard) 

Making  no  talk  or  noise, 

We  played  with  all  my  toys. 

I  never  had  such  fun 

Before  with  any  one.  .  . 


After  a  while  he  had  to  go — 

I  tired  him,  I'm  afraid; 
And  then  I  knew  why  I  liked  him  so 
When  he  played. 


n6  Concerning  Truths 

For  his  face — as  fat  as  a  face  could  be — 

Was  jolly,  and  powdered  white; 
And  I  knew  why  the  stars  must  wink  when  he 
Laughed  all  night. 

I  saw  him  dancing  along  a  wall, 
And  jumping  lightly  down — 
And  I  knew  he  wasn't  a  moon  at  all, 
But  a  Clown! 

So  when  they  tell  me  corn-starch  makes  you 

strong, 

And  sitting  still  is  good  for  tired  eyes; 
I  think  that  very  likely  they  are  wrong; 
And  lots  of  other  things  that  sound  so  wise 

Are  only  lies. 

I  think  about  the  way  they  said 
The  moon  was  far  away,  and  dead ; 
And  then  I  laugh  because  I  know 
What  isn't  so ! 


CONCERNING  A  STORM 

THE  other  night  before  the  storm, 

I  sat  and  watched  the  rain-clouds  swarm 

Like  great,  black  bees,  so  angry  that 

They  buzzed  with  thunder.    Well,  I  sat 

And  saw  the  wind  come  racing  down, 

Banging  the  shutters  of  the  town; 

Kicking  the  dust  up  in  the  road 

And  frightening  every  little  toad. 

He  broke  off  branches  for  a  toy, 

Just  like  a  large  and  wicked  boy; 

He  threw  the  papers  in  the  air, 

And  laughed  as  if  he  didn't  care 

What  any  one  might  say  or  do. 

He  roared  and  sang  and  whistled,  too.  . 

Well,  pretty  soon  things  got  so  black 

There  was  no  sky  except  a  crack, 

One  little  streak  of  funny  light. 

"  See,"  father  said,  "  just  see  how  bright 

The  heavens  shine  behind  it  now — 

And  look,  it  seemed  to  spread  somehow." 


n8  Concerning  a  Storm 

But  father  didn't  understand 

That  I  had  seen  it — seen  God's  hand 

When,  in  a  flash,  so  sharp  and  sly, 

He  tore  a  hole  in  that  black  sky. 

I  guess  God  must  have  missed  my  face 

Behind  the  clouds  in  that  dark  place, 

And  so  He  made  a  hole  to  see 

Whatever  had  become  of  me. 

So  when  the  space  grew  red  and  wide 

And  full  of  gold,  and  father  cried, 

"  Was  ever  such  a  brilliant  hue — " 

I  only  smiled  because  I  knew 

I  had  been  looking  in  God's  eye.  .  . 

Yet  I  kept  still,  till  by  and  by, 

When  father  cried,  "  The  lightning,  see — " 

I  had  to  laugh  out  loud  with  glee, 

For  it  was  God  that  winked  at  me! 


HE  TELLS  A  STORY 

ONCE  upon  a  time  all  the  stars  in  Heaven  were 

very  good. 
They  played  nicely  with  each  other  all  day 

long; 

They  were  polite  to  their  neighbors; 
And  they  talked  in  whispers  whenever  God  was 

working. 

But  one  day  some  of  them  said  to  the  others, 
"  We  are  growing  up  now ;  we  are  no  longer 

children. 

Let  us  stop  being  polite  and  obedient ; 
Let  us  sing  all  day  and  dance  all  night,  and 

kick  up  our  heels  in  the  morning." 
So  all  the  Naughty  Stars  got  together  in  one 

corner  of  the  heavens. 

And  they  sang  all  day  and  they  danced  all  night 
and  they  kicked  up  their  heels  in  the  morn 
ing. 

119 


120  He  Tells  a  Story 

And  they  made  such  a  terrible  noise  in  the 
heavens  that  none  of  the  angels  could 
sleep. 

And  God  came  to  them,  and  he  said, 

"  You  must  be  a  little  more  quiet ; 

I  am  very  busy  and  I  don't  want  to  be  dis 
turbed.  .  .  Do  you  understand  ?  " 

And  they  all  said  "  Yes,  sir,"  and  kept  very 
still. 

But  as  soon  as  God's  back  was  turned 

The  Naughty  §tars  started  to  sing  and  dance 

and  kick  up  their  heels; 
And  they  made  such  a  noise  that  every  one  of 

the  angels  had  headaches. 
And  God  heard  them,  although  he  was  far 

away, 

And  he  came  back,  very  angry,  and  he  said, 
"  Will  you  be  still !    Didn't  I  tell  you  I  wanted 

more  quiet! 
The  next  time  I  have  to  speak  to  you  about  it, 

you'll  be  sorry. 
I'll  punish  every  one  of  you   .    .    .   Do  you 

understand  ?  " 


Dick  121 

And  they  all  said  "  Yes,  sir,"  and  kept  very 
still. 

This  time  they  really  were  still. 

They  sat  in  the  corner  of  the  heavens  with  their 

fingers    on    their    lips    for    the    longest 

time.  .   .   . 
But  when  they  saw  that  God  had  gone  again, 

the  Naughty  Stars  forgot  all  about  their 

promise. 
And  they  started  to  sing  and  dance  and  kick  up 

their  golden  heels, 
And  make  such  a  noise  that  the  angels  ran 

around  like  mad. 

And  suddenly  up  jumped  God  right  in  the  mid 
dle  of  them ! 
They  were  so  frightened  they  almost  went 

out.  .    . 
And  God  began  to  punish  them. 

He  said,  "  Because  you  wouldn't  do  as  you 

were  told, 

And  because  you  didn't  appreciate  Heaven, 
I  am  going  to  send  you  out  of  it. 
You  will  have  to  live  on  the  earth; 


122  He  Tells  a  Story 

And  all  year  long  you'll  hide  in  the  grass  and 
the  bushes 

And  be  afraid  to  show  yourselves. 

Only  in  the  summer  will  you  shine  as  you  used 
to, 

And  then  you'll  try  to  fly  back  into  the  skies. 

But  you'll  never  get  back  into  Heaven  for  a  mil 
lion  years; 

And  you'll  never  stop  trying.  .  . 

And  that's  your  punishment." 

And  that's  what  happened.  .  .  . 

You  can  see  them  any  evening  in  summer,  try 
ing  to  fly  back  into  Heaven. 

But  they've  forgotten  the  way  they  came, 

Or  perhaps  their  wings  are  broken,  or  maybe 
none  of  them  are  strong  enough.  .  .  . 

Some  people  call  them  fireflies. 

But  you  and  I,  father,  know  they  are  the 
Naughty  Stars. 


ROCKS  AND  OCEAN 

I  STOOD  on  the  cliffs 

And  watched  the  ocean  tumbling  in. 

It  was  high-tide 

And  the  sea  rumbled  and  roared  around  the 

rocks. 

And  it  seemed  that  the  rocks  were  mothers 
And  the  sea-weeds  were  children  that  clung 

to  them. 

The  sea  leaped  higher  and  higher, 

An  army  of  waves, 

Reaching  out  long  white  hands 

To  tear  the  children  from  the  breast  of  the 

mothers. 

But  the  weeds  clung  tighter 
And  the  rocks  stood  in  the  midst  of  the  warring 

waters, 
Silent  and  strong. 

123 


BATTLE-CRIES 


"WAKE,  GOD,   AND  ARM" 

WAKE,  God,  and  arm — this  is  no  time  for  sleep ; 
Now  that  red  Madness  wakes  ten  million  men, 
And  Murder  laughs  and  stabs  and  laughs  again, 
And  Lust  runs  rough-shod  where  it  feared  to 

creep. 
Brushing  Thy  hand  the  great-winged  navies 

sweep ; 

Each  night  sends  down  a  hideous  surprise. 
Even  the  stars  drip  war  .   .   .  and  swarms  of 

flies 
Blot  farms  and  cities  in  one  festering  heap. 

Where  art  Thou,  God,  these  torn  and  shatter 
ing  days? 

Where  is  Thine  ancient  wrath,  Thy  militant 
word?  ... 

Still.    Thou  are  still — impotent  and  absurd — 

A  cautious  god,  feeble  with  too  much  praise. 

Thou  too,  arise  and  arm!  Why  shouldst  Thou 
be 

Keeping,  with  Death,  this  black  neutrality. 

IVJ 


THE  LAUGHERS 

SPRING  ! 

And  her  hidden  bugles  up  the  street. 

Spring — and  the  sweet 

Laughter  of  winds  at  the  crossing; 

Laughter  of  birds  and  a  fountain  tossing 

Its  hair  in  abandoned  ecstasies. 

Laughter  of  trees. 

Laughter  of  shop-girls  that  giggle  and  blush; 

Laugh  of  the  tug-boat's  impertinent  fife. 

Laughter  followed  by  a  trembling  hush — 

Laughter  of  love,  scarce  whispered  aloud. 

Then,  stilled  by  no  sacredness  or  strife, 

Laughter  that  leaps  from  the  crowd ; 

Seizing  the  world  in  a  rush. 

Laughter  of  life.  .   . 

Earth  takes  deep  breaths  like  a  man  who  had 

feared  he  might  smother, 
Filling    his    lungs    before    bursting    into    a 

shout.  .  .. 

128 


Battle-Cries  1 29 

Windows  are  opened — curtains  flying  out ; 

Over  the  wash-lines  women  call  to  each  other. 

And,  under  the  calling,  there  surges,  too  clearly 
to  doubt, 

Spring,  with  the  noises 

Of  shrill  little  voices; 

Joining  in  "  Tag  "  and  the  furious  chase 

Of  "  I-spy,"  "  Red  Rover  "  and  "  Prisoner's 
Base"; 

Of  the  roller-skates'  whir  at  the  sidewalk's 
slope, 

Of  boys  playing  marbles  and  girls  skipping 
rope. 

And  there,  down  the  avenue,  behold, 

The  first  true  herald  of  the  Spring — 

The  hand-organ  gasping  and  wheezily  mur 
muring 

Its  tunes  ten  years  old.  .  . 

And  the  music,  trivial  and  tawdry,  has  fresh 
ness  and  magical  swing. 

And  over  and  under  it, 

During  and  after, 

The  laughter 

Of  Spring.  .   . 


130  The  Laughers 

And  lifted  still 

With  the  common  thrill, 

With  the  throbbing  air,  the  tingling  vapor, 

That  rose  like  strong  and  mingled  wines ; 

I  turned  to  my  paper, 

And  read  these  lines : 

"Now  that  the  Spring  is  here, 

The  war  enters  its  bloodiest  phase.  .  . 

The  men  are  impatient.  .  . 

Bad  roads,  storms  and  the  rigors  of  the 
winter 

Have  held  back  the  contending  armies.  .  . 

But  the  recruits  have  arrived, 

And  are  waiting  only  the  first  days  of  warm 
weather 

There  will  be  terrible  fighting  along  the 
whole  line — 

Now  that  the  Spring  has  come." 

I  put  the  paper  down.  .  . 

Something  struck  out  the  sun — something 

unseen ; 

Something  arose  like  a  dark  wave  to  drown 
The  golden  streets  with  a  sickly  green. 


Battle-Cries  131 

Something  polluted  the  blossoming  day 

With  a  touch  of  decay. 

The  music  thinned  and  died ; 

People  seemed  hollow-eyed. 

Even   the    faces   of    children,    where    gaiety 

lingers, 
Sagged  and  drooped  like  banners  about  to  be 

furled — 

And  Silence  laid  its  bony  fingers 
On  the  lips  of  the  world.  .  . 
A  grisly  quiet  with  the  power  to  choke; 
A  quiet  that  only  one  thing  broke; 
One  thing  alone  rose  up  thereafter.  .  . 
Laughter ! 

Laughter  of  streams  running  red. 
Laughter  of  evil  things  in  the  night; 
Vultures  carousing  over  the  dead; 
Laughter  of  ghouls. 
Chuckling  of  idiots,  cursed  with  sight. 
Laughter  of  dark  and  horrible  pools. 
Scream  of  the  bullets'  rattling  mirth, 
Sweeping  the  earth. 
Laugh  of  the  cannon's  poisonous  breath.  .  . 


132  The  Laughers 

And  over  the  shouts  and  the  wreckage  and 

crumbling 

The  raucous  and  rumbling 
Laughter  of  death. 
Death  that  arises  to  sing, — 
Hailing  the  Spring ! 


THE    VICTORY    OF    THE    BEET- 
FIELDS 

GREEN  miles  of  leafy  peace  are  spread 

Over  these  ranks,  unseen  and  serried; 
Screening  the  trenches  with  their  dead 

And  living  men  already  buried. 
The  rains  beat  down,  the  torrents  flow 

Into  each  cold  and  huddling  cave; 
And  over  them  the  beet-fields  grow, 

A  fortress  gentle  as  a  grave. 

"  Morose,  impatient,  sick  at  heart, 

With  rasping  nerves  and  twitching  muscles. 
We  cannot  even  sleep;  we  start 

With  every  twig  that  snaps  or  rustles. 
Sought  always  by  an  unseen  foe 

Over  our  heads  the  bullets  fly; 
But  more  than  these,  we  fear  the  snow, 

The  silent  shrapnel  of  the  sky. 


133 


134         Victory  of  the  Beet-Fields 

"  Yonder  our  colonel  stalks  and  grieves, 

Meeting    the   storm    with    thoughts    more 

stormy; 
But  we,  we  sit  and  watch  the  leaves 

Fall  down,  a  torn  and  crumpled  army. 
We  mourn  for  every  leaf  that  lies, 

As  though  it  were  a  comrade  slain; 
Each  was  a  shelter  from  the  eyes 

Of  every  prying  aeroplane.  .  ." 

And  in  its  cloudy  uniform, 

Stilling  the  cannon's  earthly  thunder, 
The  huge  artillery  of  the  storm 

Plows  through  the  land  and  pulls  it  under. 
The  rain  beats  down,  until  the  slow 

And  slipping  earth  resists  no  more.  .   . 
And  over  them  the  beets  will  grow 

Ranker  and  redder  than  before. 


TO  A  WAR  POET 

You  sang  the  battle — 

You,  in  your  slippered  ease. 

Boldly  you  called  for  the  muskets  to 

rattle 

And  bade  the  bugles  lift  to  the  breeze. 
Glory  you  sang — from  your  couch. 
With  the  strength  of  a  well-filled  pouch 
You  uttered  your  militant  prattle ; 
You  sang  the  battle. 

What  was  your  singing  for, 

With  its  twopenny  craving  for  gore, 

And  its  blatant  and  shoddy  glamour 

False  to  the  core. 

Evil  enough  is  the  poisonous  clamor — 

Why  should  you  yammer 

Of  war? 

135 


136  To  a  War  Poet 

Safe  in  your  club  or  your  den 

You  watch  them  go  past  you  again ; 

Other  than  when  you  first  sung  them, 

(Thankful  that  you're  not  among  them) 

Soldiers  no  longer,  but  men. 

Men,  and  young  boys,  who  were  hot 

with  the  breath 

Of  your  ardor  and  noisy  ferment. 
Look  at  them  now;  they  are  broken 

and  spent.  .   . 

Are  you  not  glad  that  your  doggerel  sent 
Hundreds  of  these  to  their  death! 

Go  now — stop  clearing  your  throat ; 
Drop  those  fat  hands  that  smote 
Your  twanging  and  trumpery  lute. 
Go  now,  and  learn  from  that  battered 

recruit 

Of  his  jubilant  sixty  days! 
Of  the  terror  that  crowded  the  dawn ; 
Of  a  fragrant  and  peace-breathing  lawn 
Turned  to  a  roaring  blaze; 
Of  frantic  drums  that  blustered  and  beat 
A  nightmare  retreat; 


Battle-Cries  137 

Of  the  sickness,  the  death-dealing 
stenches ; 

The  stumbling  resistance,  the  thundering 
flight, 

The  desperate  wait  and  the  unending 
night 

Waist-deep  in  the  water-filled  trenches. 

Of  women  ravished  in  a  gust 

Of  horrible,  hasty  lust; 

And  children  conceived  with  the  crip 
pling  weight 

Of  frenzied  and  cancerous  hate.  .   . 

Of  dusk  settling  down  like  a  blight, 

Screening  unnamable  hordes ; 

Searchlights  stabbing  the  night 

With  blinding  and  bodiless  swords;  ^ 

Of  a  sudden  welter  of  cries 

And  death  dropping  down  from  the  skies. 

What  was  your  singing  for  ? 

This  music  that  rose  to  enamor 

The  crowd  with  a  clamor 

It  could  not  ignore.  .   . 

Go — with  your  falsetto  roar; 


138  To  a  War  Poet 

Go — with  your  ready-made  glamour. 
Why  should  you  stay  here  to  gurgle 

and  stammer 
Of  war? 


THE   OLD  DESERTER 

"  FORTY  days   .    .    .   forty  days  .    .    .   forty 

days.  .   ." 

It  seemed  to  have  been  going  on  forever; 
Not  phrases,  not  even  words — only  a  sound, 
Like  a  door  with  rusty  hinges  swinging  in  the 

wind. 

Then  I  noticed  him — the  remnant  of  a  man. 
Never  have  I  beheld  a  thing  so  smashed  and 

tattered  as  that  man's  face; 
His  sixty  years  or  more, 
With  all  their  records,  all  the  hard-learned, 

careful  craftiness, 
Were  nothing  more  than  years. 
Something  had  crushed  and  mangled  him  into 

a  gray  pulp.  .  . 
Could  he  have  stood  up  straight  he  would  have 

towered  above  me. 
I  had  to  bend  to  hear  him. 
139 


140  The  Old  Deserter 

Hungry  he  was  for  talk. 

He  tried  to  hold  back  and  be  still ; 

But,  like  flooding  streams  breaking  a  puny  dam, 

Out  of  his  mind  rushed  a  mad  torrent  of 

speech. 

So  wild,  so  muttering  fierce  it  came, 
It  was  some  time  before  I  caught  his  drift — 
Feeling  only,  like  the  tide  in  a  swirling  current, 
His  pulsing,  insistent  "  Forty  days  ....  forty 

days.  .   ." 

"  Forty  days — that's  all — just  forty  days.  .   . 

I  come  from  Pforzheim — foreman  in  the  shop 
I  was,  too; 

Head  of  the  tool-room,  a  fine  place,  light  and 
cool  in  summer. 

Best  machines  in  the  country — I  took  care  of 
them  like  children. 

(You  should  see  those  mills  now: — cartridge- 
blanks  dropping  where  we  used  to  press 
up  crosses!) 

Forty  days  .  .  .  only  forty  days.  .  . 

Forty  days — just  like  the  old  times — you  can 
read  it  in  the  Bible : 


Battle-Cries  141 

1  Forty  days  there  were  of  flood ;  forty  days  of 
fasting ' — heinf 

Yes,  forty  days  of  fools  running  round  and 
stabbing  other  fools;  and  all  of  them  pray 
ing  to  God  to  help  them ; 

And  the  whole  world  going  to  smash. 

I  almost  went  mad  myself. 

My  son  (curse  him!)  the  worst  fool  of  the  lot, 
went  along  with  them, 

Singing  louder  than  a  drunken  man.  .  . 

We  were  more  like  brothers,  we  two ;  we  never 
had  had  a  quarrel. 

I  could  have  killed  him  when  he  said  "  Good- 

by," 

And  the  boys  in  the  street  shouted  godspeed 
And  a  couple  of  women  nudged  each  other  and 

looked  sneeringly  at  me. 
Yah — what  did  I  care !    I  wanted  none  of  their 

fool's  glory.  .   . 

Then  I  had  to  clear  out  after  all. 
They  made  me  go  along. — My  God,  those  forty 

days! 
A  hundred  million  acres  ruined  by  the  armies, 

the  gray  vultures! 


142  The  Old  Deserter 

Cannon  in  the  wheat-fields  and  orchards  rot 
ting  in  the  poisoned  smoke ; 

The  tramping,  and  the  iron  rain  that  never 
stopped,  and  the  sickness,  and  the  young 
boys  going  crazy.  .  . 


And  forty  days  ago  I  had  been  working  on  a 
draw-plate, 

And  the  men  were  standing  around  me,  gossip 
ing  at  lunch-time ; 

And  Adolph  (he  was  the  favorite)  was  late 
with  the  beer. 

I  remember  how  we  all  waited,  thirsty  and 
joking. 

And  Karl,  my  assistant,  said,  '  Well,  I  hope  he 
don't  drink  my  share.  .  .  . ' 

And  then  he  came  in  with  the  news.  .  . 

Forty  days  ago  .  .  .  only  forty  days. 

It  isn't  possible.  .    ." 

I  left  him,  still  mumbling  and  twisting  on  his 

cot; 
His  filmed  eyes  did  not  even  follow  me. 


CELL-MATES 

Aw,  quit  yer  cryin',  kid — I  know  it's  tough, 
But  dearie,  shush ;  nobody's  gone  to  lynch  ye ; 

Later  ye'll  find  th'  cops  are  square  enough ; 
It's  always  worse  the  first  time  that  they 
pinch  ye. 

Things  ain't  so  bad.     Now  there,  don't  take 

on  so — 
The  matron  won't  do  nothin'  if  ye  shout, 

dear. 
That's  right  .    .   .  Now  come  an'  tell  me  all 

ye  know.  .   < 
Ain't  ye  got  nobody  to  bail  ye  out,  dear  ? 

Well,  well — .    But  that's  a  shame.    A  kid  so 

cute 
An'  young  like  youse  had  never  ought  to 

worry. 

Gee!  if  they'd  doll  ye  up,  ye'd  be  a  beaut — 
Why  should  ye  waste  yer  life  in  work  an' 
hurry? 

143 


144  Cell- Mates 

Oh,  there  is  lots  o'  ways  it  could  be  did — 
'Course  I  won't  do  this  much   for  ev'ry- 
body — 

I  tell  ye  what,  I'm  gone  to  help  ye,  kid, 
An'  I've  got  infloonce,  if  my  clo'es  is  shoddy. 

S'posin'  that  I  could  get  ye  out  o'  here — 
Now,  now;   don't  take  on  like  a  reg'lar 

baby — 
Yer  pretty  lucky  that  ye  met  me,  dear. 

What's  that?     No,  not  to-night.     To-mor 
row,  maybe. 

Well 's  I  was  sayin',  when  I  leave  this  hole 
I'll  get  my  friend  to  go  to  work  an'  help  ye — 

Don't  breathe  this  here  to  any  livin'  soul, 
Fer  strangers,  dear,  is  jest  the  ones  to  scalp 
ye. 

Now,  I've  the  swellest  little  flat  uptown, 
An'  jolly — somethin'  doin'  every  minute ! 

There's  always  some  live  people  hangin'  roun' ; 
Ye'll  never  want  to  leave  when  once  ye're 
in  it. 


Battle-Cries  145 

There's  lots  o'  dancin' — jest  ye  wait  an'  see 
The  nifty  rags  I'll  get  to  fit  ye,  dearie. 

Aw,  never  mind  the  thanks — wait  till  you're 

free; 
This  gratitood  an'  sob  stuff  makes  me  weary. 

Don't  worry  now,  an'  things  '11  be  all  right  ; 

Ye'll  only  see  th'  folks  with  happy  faces. 
There'll  be  no  more  o'  workin'  noon  an'  night, 

An'  standin'  up  all  day  behind  th'  laces. 

Here's  the  address.     Now,  don't  ye  lose  it, 

dear; 
An'  come  right  up — don't  stop  to  primp  or 

tidy. 

Gee !  but  it's  lucky  that  ye  met  me  here.  .  . 
Let's  go  to  sleep  .  .  .  Good-night  ...  an* 
see  ye  Frid'y. 


LINES   TO   A  POMERANIAN 

PUFFY  VALUED  AT  3,500 

DOLLARS 

OFTEN  as  I  strain  and  stew, 

Digging  in  these  dirty  ditches, 
I  have  dared  to  think  of  you — 
You  and  all  your  riches. 

Lackeys  help  you  on  and  off; 

Silk's  the  stuff  on  which  you're  lying. 
You  have  doctors  when  you  cough, 
Priests  when  you  are  dying. 

Wrapt  in  soft  and  costly  furs, 

All  sewed  up  with  careful  stitches, 
You  consort  with  proper  curs 
And  with  perfumed  bitches. 

At  your  lightest,  wheezy  bark, 

Haughty  women  run  to  feed  you ; 
Deaf  to  all  things  else,  they  hark, 
And,  what's  more,  they  heed  you. 
146 


Battle-Cries  147 

Guarded  from  the  world,  you  grow 

Sleek  and  snug  in  pillowed  niches; 
You  will  never  have  to  know 
Common  ills  or  itches. 

Lord,  but  things  are  queer  and  odd — 
Queerer  still,  with  you  to  show  it ; 
You're  a  lucky  dog,  by  God, 
And  you  do  not  know  it ! 

You  don't  sweat  to  struggle  free, 

Work  in  rags  and  rotting  breeches  .  .  . 
Puppy,  have  a  laugh  at  me 
Digging  in  the  ditches. 


BROADWAY  SILHOUETTE 

LIKE  some  great  flower  of  the  night 
The  city  blossoms  into  blaze; 

And  there  is  laughter  and  delight 
Along  these  loud  and  mirthless  ways. 

Blazing — with  flame  that  brightens  not  .  . 

While  all  the  floods  that  stream  and  spill 
Themselves  into  this  brilliant  blot 

Make  what  is  darkness  darker  still. 


148 


YOUTH    MORALIZES 

(1905-1911) 


'(For  My  Mother) 


TO  MY  MOTHER 

Poor  recompense  to  you  were  I  to  fill 
This  page  with  rhyme  and  rhetoric,  to 

display 
Only  the  poet  and  thereby  betray 

My  earliest  thoughts  for  mere  poetic  skill. 

Poor  recompense,  indeed,  were  I  to  thrill 
With  my  own  music,  turn  to  you  and  say, 
"  I  give  you  these,  my  verses,  let  them  pay 

For  all  you  gave  and  all  you  give  me  still." 

I  am  too  poor  to  buy  you  back  the  years 

A  mother  pays  for  with  her  dreams  and  fears, 

For  I  am  rich  in  nothing  but  in  love. 
So  let  me  live  my  thanks,  so  let  me  be 
Forever  in  your  debt,  who  gave  to  me 

The  breath  of  life — and  all  the  joy  thereof. 


IN  THE   NIGHT 

HE  struggled  down  the  twisting  road, 
Lost  in  the  black,  barbaric  night; 

Stumbling  beneath  a  torturing  load, 
Crying,  "  Alas !  There  is  no  light !  " 

His  strength  was  gone;  his  spirit  quelled. 

He  stopped,  and  in  a  desperate  mood 
He  raised  his  eyes  .   .   .  lo,  he  beheld 

The  stars — a  conquering  multitude! 


152 


POETRY 

GOD  made  the  world  with  rhythm  and 
rhyme : 

He  set  the  sun  against  the  moon ; 
He  swung  the  stars  to  beat  in  time, 

And  sang  the  universe  in  tune. 
He  gave  the  seas  their  mighty  tongue, 

He  gave  the  wind  its  lyric  wings. 
And  the  exulting  soul  of  song 

Was  woven  through  the  heart  of  things. 

To-day  this  wonder  was  revealed 

In  singing  colors,  swift  and  plain. 
I  heard  it  in  a  daisy-field 

Under  the  downbeat  of  the  rain. 
The  surging  streets  repeated  it, 

The  cars  intoned  it  as  they  ran.  .  . 
And  then  I  saw  how  closely  knit 

Were  God  and  Poetry  with  man. 


153 


154  Poetry 

A  scrap  of  sky,  a  group  of  trees, 

A  tower  and  a  swallow's  dart, 
The  cadence  of  a  dying  breeze, 

Like  sudden  music  swept  my  heart. 
A  laughing  child  looked  up  and  sprang 

To  greet  me  at  the  homeward  climb.  .   , 
And  all  about  me  surged  and  sang 

The  world  God  made  with  rhythm  and 
rhyme. 


STRANGERS 

SIDE  by  side  in  the  crowded  train 
Two  men  were  counting  the  streets; 

The  cars  crept  slowly  through  the  rain 

And  the  mist  grew  thick  on  the  blurring  pane. 

Side  by  side  in  the  crowded  train 
Two  men  were  counting  the  streets. 

One  thought,  "  Oh  God,  must  it  end  in  strife; 

A  bitter  and  gasping  breath? " 
The  other  thought  of  the  new-born  life 
That  lay  that  day  in  the  arms  of  his  wife.  .   . 
And  the  one  was  going  to  welcome  Life, 

The  other  to  witness  Death. 


155 


THE   MYSTERIES 

THREE  mysteries  there  will  always  be : 
The  changeless  soul  of  the  changing  sea, 
The  riddle  of  God  in  flower  and  thorn, 
And  the  mind  of  a  child  that  is  newly  born. 

And  the  smallest  of  these  is  the  greatest  still ; 
For  the  sea  can  be  plumbed  to  its  depths  at  will, 
And  God  can  be  found  in  the  loneliest  wild — 
But  who  shall  fathom  the  mind  of  a  child. 


156 


THE   POET 

-      x  '-  / 

His  soul  is  like  a  shining  glass, 

A  mirror,  sensitive  and  thin; 
Passions  that  flare  and  lives  that  pass 
Through  one  small  life  are  shown 
therein,  v? 

It  mirrors  keen  and  careless  mirth ; 

The  love  that  leaps,  the  lure  that  dies ; 
Its  depths  contain  the  fluent  earth, 

The  secret  and  immoderate  skies. 

x'  x 

Visions  extravagant  and  pale, 

The  soft  and  sharp  desires  of  men, 
Reflecting  these,  each  threadbare  tale 
Grows  fresh  and  eloquent  again.  .  . 

His  soul  is  but  a  fragile  glass 
Revealing  what  his  age  has  been. 

But  it  shall  live,  though  all  else  pass, 
For  all  of  Time  is  seen  therein.  ^ 
157 


THE   YOUTH  MORALIZES 

YES,  it  is  here ; — this  is  the  street, 

And  this  the  little  house  of  hers. 
Again  my  pulses  throb  and  beat, 

The  sharp  and  curious  longing  stirs. 
Once  more  the  ancient  fevers  burn, 

And  rack  me  with  forgotten  pain.  . 
What  chance,  I  wonder,  made  me  turn 

My  footsteps  to  her  door  again? 

Nothing  is  changed — the  hedge,  the 

broom, 
The  quaint  old  flowers,  the  powdery 

smell ; 
And  these,  the  windows  of  her  room, 

The  little  room  we  knew  so  well. 
How  many  times  we  opened  wide 

That  darkened  lattice  to  the  moon, 
And  leaned  together,  side  by  side, 
And  drew  in  all  the  generous  June ! 
158 


Youth  Moralizes  159 

How  still,  on  tiptoe,  we  would  steal 

Breathlessly  to  that  secret  room, 
Where  gloriously  she  would  reveal 

Herself  in  starlight,  half  in  gloom. 
Or  fall  asleep  and  hear  the  rain 

Beat  lightly,  like  an  eager  throng 
Of  fairies  tapping  on  the  pane, 

To  haunt  us  with  a  silver  song  .  .  . 

And  then — our  love  became  a  task, 

The  rosy  glamour  turned  to  gray; 
Faith  was  a  masquerader's  mask, 

And  Life  a  bitter  holiday. 
It  was  the  end,  the  acrid  morn; 

Love  could  not  hold  a  loveless  mate. 
I  laughed  and  thought  of  her  with  scorn; 

She  smiled  at  me  with  almost  hate. 

For  we  had  only  played  at  love, 

Untouched  by  passion,  free  of  fears ; 

We  never  knew  that  pain  could  move 
Kindly  beneath  a  weight  of  tears. 

Surfeit,  not  grief,  came  to  destroy ; 
And  only  at  the  end  we  knew 


160  The  Youth  Moralizes 

That,  in  the  very  hour  of  joy, 

Love  must  have  tears  and  suffering 
too.  .   . 

And  this  was  taught  us  long  ago — 

Yet,  as  I  watch  the  moonlight  play 
Along  the  eaves,  it  seems  as  though 

I  had  been  here  but  yesterday. 
Nothing  is  changed ;  the  old  lamps  burn 

Where  once  we  sat  and  watched  the 

rain.  .   . 
What  chance,  I  wonder,  made  me  turn 

My  footsteps  to  her  door  again? 


A  PORTRAIT 

GOD  being  idle  on  a  summer's  day 
Fashioned  a  woman  arrogantly  fair; 
Subtle  and  soft,  He  made  her  seem  to  wear 

The  whole  world's  beauties  to  the  world's  dis 
may. 

And,  as  He  watched  her  body  bend  and  sway, 
He  set  the  rose  upon  her  lips  to  share 
A  milder  breath  than  ever  South-winds  bear 

From  magic  haunts  to  greet  the  languid  May. 

Thus  He  made  thee,  my  love,  with  liberal  care 
So  rich,  so  radiant,  that  from  every  pole 
The  angels  came  to  worship  and  extol, 

While  He  Himself  could  only  sit  and  stare.  .  . 

And,  lost  in  wonder  as  He  made  thee  there, 
God  in  His  negligence  forgot  the  soul. 


161 


AN  OLD  SONG 

O  SWEET  and  cool  is  the  redstart's  song 

As  it  scatters  the  heat ; 
And  sweet  is  the  whisper  of  winds  along 

A  child-crowded  street ; 
Sweet  is  the  music  when  lovers  rejoice, 

And  Song  may  beguile — 
But  sweeter  still  is  my  true  love's  voice 

And  her  blossoming  smile. 


O  soft  and  swift  are  the  feet  of  Spring 

As  she  dances  alone; 
And  soft  is  the  scent  of  flowers  that  cling 

To  a  sheltering  stone. 
Light  as  a  butterfly  that  dips 

Through  a  blue  abyss, — 
And  softer  still  are  my  true  love's  lips 

And  her  silken  kiss. 
162 


Youth  Moralizes  163 

O  wide  and  vast  is  the  star-filled  sky 

And  the  starless  sea ; 
Strong  is  the  life  that  surges  by, 

Resistless  and  free; 
And  vast  are  the  circlings  of  suns  that  move 

To  a  flaming  goal — 
But  greater  than  all  is  my  true  love's  love 

And  her  fiery  soul. 


A  SINGER 

IF  the  wings  of  my  song  were  so  strong  as  to 

lift  me  from  under 
The  rhythms  and  regular  rhymes  that  are  all 

of  my  skill, 
Would  I  soar,  would  I  rise  in  the  fullness  of 

power?    I  wonder  .    .    . 
Could  I  ever  give  up  the  old  longing  to  war 
ble  and  trill  ? 

The  hawk  and  the  sea-gull  that  circle  in  con 
fident  splendor 
Dazzle,  and  thrill  me ;  but  I  am  no  sweeper  of 

stars. 
I  am  one  with  the  finch  that  has  only  her  song 

to  commend  her, 

The  thrush  or  the  prisoned  canary,  still  lyric 
for  all  of  its  bars. 


164 


ROSES 

I  DREAMT  I  heard  a  dying  rose 
Speak  to  the  deathless  night : 
"  O  love,  this  is  the  tearful  close 
Of  our  impossible  dreams,  and  those 

Desires  beyond  delight. 
Yet  ere  I  die,  to  give  me  rest, 
Take  me  once  more  upon  your  breast ; 
Hold  me  a  burning  moment  there 
And  kiss  my  lips  and  call  me  fair." 

And  as  she  spoke,  I  woke  to  weep; 

The  dream  dissolved  in  tears. 
Remembered  words  .  .  .  they  robbed  my 

sleep 
And  echoed  still,  and  lived  to  keep 

Their  poignance  through  the  years. 
I  know  when  last  I  heard  those  words 
Struggling  like  torn  and  wounded  birds, 
Whose  cries  beat  on  my  heart  like  blows, 
They  were  not  spoken  by  a  rose, 
165 


NINETEEN  AND  APRIL 

GOD  be  praised  for  April  weather — 

All  the  world's  carousing  now; 
Slipping  every  tie  and  tether, 

Leaping  from  the  winter's  slough. 
Earth-warm  breezes  faintly  blowing, 

Buds  that  dare  to  burst  at  last, 
Rippling  skies  and  green  things  growing 

Stir  me  like  a  bugle  blast. 

All  the  pagan  in  me  waking, 

Runs  to  dance  with  feet  of  fire; 
And  my  heart,  a  year's  thirst  slaking, 

Seeks  the  well  of  my  desire. 
Quicker  fly  my  pulses,  quicker 

Runs  the  world  with  naked  glee ; 
And  the  tree-toad  and  the  flicker 

And  the  winds  are  one  with  me. 

166 


Youth  Moralizes  167 

To  be  lying,  swathed  with  grasses, 

In  some  softly-stirring  wood, 
Where  each  gipsy  breeze  that  passes 

Hails  my  laugh  of  brotherhood. 
Or  to  feel  my  body,  slipping, 

Cleave  the  water  as  I  sink; 
Then  to  shoot  up  cool  and,  dripping, 

Fling  myself  upon  the  brink.  .   . 

After  all  these  sober  ages, 

Madness  fresh  each  April  brings ; 
What  to  me  are  strife  and  sages 

When  the  first  cock-robin  sings.  .  . 
I  exult  like  one  possessed,  I'm 

Drunken  with  the  wine  of  youth. 
Spring,  you  are  the  glad  year's  best  time ! 

Life,  you  are  Life's  only  truth! 


IN  A  MINOR  KEY 

LOVE,  when  I  die,  your  thought  of  me 
Shall  make  the  earth  a  magic  bed. 

Though  buried  in  the  deepest  sea, 
I  shall  not  join  the  weary  dead. 

For  you  shall  make  me  live  and  rise, 
Your  thought  shall  be  my  blood  and 
breath — 

And  only  when  your  memory  dies 
Will  I  too  die — a  double  death. 


168 


CREATION 

MAN  in  the  making — God  watched  him  with 

pride, 

Striving  to  shake  off  the  marks  of  the  clod ; 
"  How  can  I  make  him  more  splendid,"  He 

sighed, 
"  Shape  him  still  more  in  the  image  of 

God?" 

Then,  as  His  thought,  like  a  flame,  lit  the  sky, 
God  turned  and  spoke  to  the  angels  that  wait, 
"  Lo,  he  shall  thrill  with  it,  even  as  I ; — 
He  shall  be  godly,  for  he  shall  create." 

Thus  was  the  furious  measure  of  bliss 
Kindled  in  men,  an  insatiate  fire.  .   . 

God's  very  joy  is  no  wilder  than  this 
Lust  of  creation,  this  grappling  desire. 

The  passion  that  surges  like  wave  upon  wave — 
Imperative  travail,  this  hand  at  the  heart.  .  . 

Aye,  He  was  God  when  He  lavishly  gave 

To  the  mother  her  child,  to  the  artist  his  art. 
169 


A   GLEE   FOR   FEBRUARY 

OH,  sing  out  a  song  when  the  nights  are  long 

And  the  evening  hour  is  chill; 
When  the  wind  goes  by  with  a  muffled  cry, 

And  the  clouds  in  the  sky  are  still. 
When  never  a  bird  in  the  land  is  heard, 

And  every  voice  has  a  rift; 
When  the  rivers  freeze  and  the  trembling  trees 
Stand  up  to  their  knees  in  the  drift. 

Chorus: 

Then  it's  hi,  ho,  hi,  when  the  woods  all  lie 
A -huddling  up  'neath  a  freezing  sky — 
And  it's  ho,  hi,  ho,  when  the  North-winds 

blow, 

And  the  whole  world  sleeps  in  the  deeps  of 
the  snow. 

So  a  carol  gay  when  the  dawn  comes  gray 

And  the  morning  air  is  swift; 
When  the  fields  of  white  are  a  cheerful  sight, 

And  the  clear  cold  night  is  a  gift! 
170 


Youth  Moralizes  171 

When  the  breath  of  the  fir  and  the  pine-trees 

stir 

All  our  days  with  a  poignant  thrill ; 
And  the  Winter's  soul  is  a  brimming  bowl 
Which  we  pledge  with  a  whole  heart's  will. 

Chorus: 

Then  it's  hi,  ho,  hi,  when  the  woods  all  lie 
A-huddling  up  'neath  a  freezing  sky — 
And  it's  ho,  hi,  ho,  when  the  North-winds 

blow, 

And  the  whole  world  sleeps  in  the  deeps  of 
the  snow. 


MARCH    MOOD 

HERE'S  Spring  come  again,  the  old  harlot- 
Back  to  her  haunts  again ; 
And  the  blood  of  the  world  runs  scarlet 
With  the  harsh  desire,  the  shattering  pain. 
Yet — here  are  the  same  old  tricks : 
The  smile  and  the  side-long  glances, 
The  stale  and  hackneyed  romances, 
The  magics  that  do  not  mix.  .  . 
The  same,  old  stock  in  trade — 
The  blushes  and  airs  of  a  maid 
That  flies  from  a  bashful  pursuer, 
While  she  herself  is  the  wooer 
That  will  be  obeyed ! 

Tripping  the  tawdry  measure, 
Singing  her  worn-out  song; 
She  accosts  you  with  tales  of  her  treasure, 
Glib  patter  of  love  and  of  pleasure; 

And  you,  you  are  carried  along.  .  . 
173 


Youth  Moralizes  173 

But  look  at  the  paint  on  her  cheeks, 
It  is  thick  with  thousands  of  years; 
And  notice  her  voice  as  she  speaks, 
It  is  trembling  with  age,  not  her  tears. 
She  is  old,  lad,  believe,  she  is  old — 
She  is  hardened  and  bitter  and  cold ; 
A  wanton  that  has  no  more  fire  in  her  soul 
Than  a  burnt  bit  of  coal ; 
A  vampire  that  sends  the  blood  coursing, 

and  then 
Sucks  out  the  spirits  of  men.  .  . 

But  the  fool  is  still  flattered  and  blinded, 

And  the  poet  still  babbles  of  bliss; 

And  even  the  wise  and  the  sensible-minded 

Are  bewitched  by  her  kiss. 

And,  though  she  is  old  as  the  Winter, 

And  her  insolent  beauty  is  shed, 

They  will  clasp  her  and  rhyme  her  and  tint 

her 
Till  the  last  of  her  lovers  is  dead! 


OCTOBER 

ON  the  altar  of  the  world 
All  the  hopes  of  Spring  are  furled; 
All  of  Autumn's  gifts  are  spread 
Where  the  Summer  rests  her  head. 
Broken  beauty,  ravished  youth, 
Ghosts  of  passion,  shards  of  truth, 
Old  desires  and  visions  lost, — 
All  of  these  are  heaped  and  tossed 
On  the  sacrificial  pile, 
Where  in  majesty  a  while 
Summer  sleeps  in  solemn  state ; 
Sleeps  upon  a  wide,  ornate 
Bed  of  balsam,  oak  and  larch.  .   . 
Nature  then  applies  the  torch. 

First  a  spark — then  leaps  among 
Oak  and  beech  a    tiny  tongue; 
Darts  of  gold  and  tips  of  yellow 
Touch  the  branches  of  the  willow. 
174 


Youth  Moralizes  175 

And  the  growing  color  spreads 
Into  fierce  and  flaming  reds, 
Kindling  bush  and  brake  and  brier 
With  the  surging,  sacred  fire. 
Maple  clusters  all  aglow, 
Slim  white  birches  in  a  row, 
Trembling  in  the  woodland  ways, 
Burst  into  a  golden  blaze. 


Even  slender  grass  and  fern 
Droop  and  wither  as  they  burn, 
While  the  helpless  earth  is  lost 
In  this  sweeping  holocaust. 
Now  the  wakened  winds  run  free, 
Swinging  brands  from  tree  to  tree, 
And  the  fire  spreads  until 
Every  mountainside  and  hill, 
Every  hedge  and  garden  close, 
In  the  wildest  radiance  glows — 
Till  the  flames  that  fly  unfurled 
Leap  and  inundate  the  world. 
And  the  martyred  Summer  lies 
Burning  with  her  sacrifice.  .   . 


176  October 

Why  this  immolation;  why 
Wrapped  in  flame  does  Summer  lie, 
Till  the  world  is  barren,  and 
Only  ashes  strew  the  land. 
Is  this  saintly  death,  the  birth 
Of  another  richer  earth 
That  will  quicken  from  the  sere 
Leaves  and  ruin  scattered  here. 
Does  the  dying  Summer  know 
That,  beneath  the  embers'  glow, 
Unborn  daisies  wait,  and  bold 
Violets  that  dare  the  cold; 
That  from  Summer's  sacrifice 
Spring  eternally  will  rise. 


IN  ABSENCE 

THE  rain  here  has  a  sullen  sound — 

Far  off  and  somehow  thinned 
The  lights  are  seen ;  and  with  a  bound 

Up  leaps  an  angry,  baying  wind. 
There  is  a  menace  in  the  sea; 

The  stars  take  on  an  insolent  light ; 
A  veil  of  evil  mystery 

Enshrouds  the  blinded  night. 

The  rain  dies  down,  the  night  grows 
clear  ; 

The  wind  is  hushed — and  yet 
The  stillness  wakes  a  baseless  fear, 

The  very  strangeness  seems  a  threat. 
I  dread  this  unfamiliar  sea; 

The  whimpering,  half-human  moan. 
And  I  could  face  infinity 

Laughing  with  you,  my  own ! 


177 


PLAZA  SQUARE 
(Late  September  Twilight) 

Now  earth  and  sky  melt  into  one 

Great  symphony  of  pearl  and  gray — 
We  bless  the  cool  of  dusk,  the  dun 
Departure  of  the  fevered  day; 
Happy  that  Summer  on  her  flaming 
way 

Has  gone. 

The  trees,  against  the  shifting  light, 

Become  fantastic ;  one  may  trace 
A  screen  of  stars,  a  network  bright 
Where  worlds  and  branches  interlace 
A  mystic  veil  across  the  cloudy  face 
Of  night. 
178 


Youth  Moralizes  179 

Now  it  is  evening;  in  the  park 

The  lights,  like  burning  drops  of  dew, 
Flame  through  the  trees ;  and  every  spark 
Falls  in  the  lake  to  form  anew 
A  web  of  tattered  brilliance  woven 
through 

The  dark. 

And,  like  an  army  all  awry, 

With  broken  hopes  and  banners  torn, 
The  people  pass,  and  in  each  eye 

I  see  the  joy  for  which  they  mourn — 
The  unknown  rapture  stirs  that  is 
not  born 

To  die. 


TWO    REBELS 


EVE   SPEAKS 


PAUSE,  God,  and  ponder,  ere  Thou  judgest  me. 
Though  it  be  doomsday,  and  the  trampling 

winds 
Rush  blindly  through  the  stark  and  cowering 

skies, 

Bearing  Thy  fearful  mandate  like  a  sword, 
I  do  not  tremble  ...  I  am  unafraid  .  .  . 
Though  the  red  flame  of  wrath  lick  up  the 

worlds, 

And  dizzy  stars  fall  in  a  golden  rain; 
Though,  in  an  agonizing  fear  of  life, 
The    summoned    spirits,    torn    from    gentle 

graves, 

Whirl  at  Thy  feet  or  fly  before  Thy  frown, 
Like  leaves  that  run  before  a  scornful  breeze, 
I  do  not  fly  ...  My  soul  is  unafraid.  .   . 
183 


184  Eve  Speaks 

Years  have  swept  over  me  and  in  the  wash 
Of  foaming  centuries  have  been  forgot. 
Yet  still  my  soul  remembers  Paradise, 
That  perfect  echo  of  Thy  gentler  mood.  .   . 
Wrapped  in  a  drowsy  luxury  we  lived, 
Beauty  our  food  and  idleness  our  pillow. 
Day  after  day,  we  walked  beneath  Thy  smile; 
And  as  we  wandered  through  the  glittering 

hours, 

Our  souls  unfolding  with  the  friendly  earth, 
Eden  grew  richer  to  our  ardent  eyes. 
With  every  step,  a  clump  of  trees,  a  star, 
An  undiscovered  flower,  a  hill,  a  cry, 
A  new,  wild  sunset  or  a  wilder  bird, 
Entered  our  lives  and  grew  a  part  of  us. 
Lord,  there  was  naught  but  happiness— and 

yet, 

Though  Adam  gloried  in  the  world's  content, 
And  sunned  himself  in  rich  complacency, 
The  thought  that  there  was  something  more 

than  joy, 

Beyond  perfection,  greater  than  singing  peace 
And  tranquil  happiness,  vexed  all  my  hours.  .  . 
Here  in  a  garden,  without  taint  or  care, 


Two  Rebels  185 

We  played  like  children,  we  who  were  not  chil 
dren. 
Swaddled  with  ease,  lulled  with  Thy  softest 

dreams, 

We  lived  in  perfect  calm,  who  were  not  per 
fect.  .  . 

Eden  was  made  for  angels — not  for  Man.  .   . 
Often  the  thought  of  this  would  come  to  me 
When  Adam's  songs  seemed  empty  of  all  mirth, 
When  he  grew  moody  and  the  reckless  fire 
Leaped  in  his  eyes  and  died ;  or  when  I  saw 
Him  lying  at  my  side — his  brawny  arms 
Knotted  with  strength;  his  bosom  deep  and 

broad, 
His  hands  tight-clenched,  his  mouth  firm,  even 

in  sleep. 

Here  was  a  body  made  for  mighty  building, 
Here   was  a  brain  designed   to  dream   and 

mould — 

To  waste  such  energy  on  such  a  life! 
I  could  not  think  it.     Seeing  him,  I  knew 
Man  made  for  Eden  only — not  for  more — 
Was  made  in  vain.  .  .  I  claimed  my  Adam, 
God; 


i 86  Eve  Speaks 

Claimed  him   for   fiercer   things   and  lustier 

worlds, 

Immoderate  measures,  insolent  desires ; 
Claimed    him    for    great    and    strengthening 

defeats.  .  . 

He  was  but  one  of  many  things  to  Thee — 
A  cunning  lump  of  clay,  a  speaking  clod — 
One  of  a  universe  of  miracles. 
Each  day  a  fresh  creation  was  to  Thee; 
Thou  hadst  infinity  to  shape  and  guard — 
I  only  Adam. 

Lying  awake  one  night  beneath  the  Tree, 
I  heard  him  sighing  in  a  fitful  sleep. 
A  cold,  disdainful  moon  mocked  my  unrest; 
A  night-bird  circled  out  beyond  the  wood. 
Never  did  Eden  seem  so  much  a  prison.  .   . 
Past  the  great  gates  I  glimpsed  the  unknown 

world, 

Lying  unfettered  in  majestic  night. 
I  saw  the  broadening  stream  hold  out  its  arms ; 
The  proud  hills  called  me  and  the  lure 
Of  things  unheard,  unguessed  at,  caught  my 

soul. 


Two  Rebels  187 

Adam  was  made  for  this — and  this  for  him. 
The  peace  of  Eden  grew  intolerable. 
Better  the  long  uncertainty  of  toil, 
The  granite  scorn  of  the  experienced  world, 
And  failure  upon  failure;  better  these 
Than  this  enforced  and  rotting  indolence. 
Adam  should  know  his  godhood;  he  should 

feel 

The  weariness  of  work,  and  pride  of  it; 
The  labor  of  creation,  and  its  joy. 
His  hands  should  rear  the  dream,  his  sinews 

think ; 
And  in  a  rush  of  power  his  strength  should 

rise 
And    rend   and   tame    and    wrest   its    secret 

from 

The  sweating,  energetic  earth; 
Until  his  rude  and  stumbling  soul  could  grasp 
Conquering  and  unconquerable  joys  .   .   . 
So  should  his  purpose  work  among  the  stars; 
Face,  without  fear,  contemptuous  centuries ; 
Meet  the  astonished  heavens  with  a  laugh, 
And  answer  God  with  God's  own  words  and 

deeds. 


1 88  Eve  Speaks 

One  thing  alone  would  give  all  this  to  him, 
One  thing  would  cleave  the  sealed  and  stub 
born  rocks, 

Harness  the  winds,  yoke  the  unbridled  seas — 
Knowledge,  the  force  and  shaper  of  the  world. 
And  so  I  knew  that  we  should  eat — and  learn. 

II 

Into  the  world  we  went,  Adam  and  I, 
Bound  by  a  new  and  strange  companionship. 
For  in  the  battle  with  a  hostile  earth, 
His  were  the  victories,  mine  were  all  defeats. 
His  was  the  lust  of  doing :  a  furrow  tilled, 
A  wily  beast  ensnared,  a  flint  well-turned; 
A  headlong  chase,  a  hut  or  trap  well-built. 
The  joy  of  things  accomplished  Adam  knew. 
Was  there  a  hunt — there  was  a  feast  for  him ; 
Was  there  a  harvest — there  was  rest  thereafter ; 
Was  Adam  hurt — there  was  my  soothing  care ; 
Was  Adam  tired — there   were   my  lips  and 

arms.  .  . 

Aye,  Lord,  though  I  cried  out  against  this  thing 
That  made  me  Adam's  servant,  not  his  mate, 
Yet  it  was  just — for  into  endless  strife 


Two  Rebels  189 

My  will  had  plunged  him;  therefore  all  the 

years 

I  tended,  comforted,  encouraged  him 
With  prayers  and  quickening  passion,  till  he 

knew 

The  dazzling,  harsh  divinity  of  Love.  .   . 
God,  Thou  didst  make  a  creature  out  of  dust, 
But  7  created  Man.  .  .  I  was  to  him 
A  breast,  soft  shoulders,  an  impelling  brain ; 
I  was  his  spur,  his  shield,  his  stirrup-cup; 
I  was  his  child,  his  strumpet  and  his  wife.  .   . 
A  world  of  women  have  I  been  to  him, 
To  him  and  all  the  myriad  sons  of  Adam, 
And  all  that  they  remember  is  my  shame ! 
All  times  by  all  men  have  I  been  betrayed — 
They  have  belittled  and  disgraced  my  deed 
That  made  them  seek  until  they  found  them 
selves  ; 

Have  turned  my  very  purposes  against  me, 
Knowing  not  that  I  help  them  unawares. 
Yes,  I  have  driven  them — that  they  too  might 

drive ; 

Have  held  their  chains — till  they  could  tear 
them  free; 


190  Eve  Speaks 

Have  ruled  and  urged  them  with  a  hardened 

hand, 
That  they  might  find  the  stony  world  less  hard. 

And  what  was  my  reward  when  they  had 

won: — 
Freedom,  that  I  had  bought  with  torturing 

bonds  ? 

Faith,  that  is  stronger  than  the  iron  years  ? 
Love,  with  a  warmth  that  heals  as  well  as 

burns  ? 

Or  comradeship,  the  golden  hour  of  love, 
Clean  as  the  candid  gaze  of  stars  and  children? 
Such  things  were  not  my  portion.    Sneers  and 

taunts, 

Mixed  with  the  pity  of  a  tolerant  lord; 
My  name  turned  to  base  uses,  made  to  serve 
A  twisted  symbol  and  a  mockery. 
Or  was  I  given  in  some  more  amorous  mood, 
A  brief  endearment  or  an  easy  smile, 
A  jewel;  perhaps  an  hour  of  casual  love — 
These  were  the  precious  coin  in  which  they 

paid. 
And  thus,  to  either  concubine  or  wife, 


Two  Rebels  191 

They  eased  their  conscience — and  their  throb 
bing  lust. 
They  stormed  through  countries  brandishing 

their  deeds, 

Boasting  a  gross  and  transient  mastery 
To  girls,  who  listened  with  indulgent  ears 
And  laughing  hearts.  .  .  Lord,  they  were  ever 

blind— 
Women  have  they  known,  but  never  Woman. 

Ill 

God,  when  the  rosy  world  first  learned  to  crawl 
About  the  floor  of  heaven,  wert  Thou  not 

proud ! 
Though  Thou  hast  planned  a  heaven  of  suns  to 

swing 

About  Thy  skies,  like  censers  whirling  praise ; 
Though  Thou  hast  made  immense  and  sterile 

Space 

Busy  with  life,  a  deathless  miracle; 
And  now  hast  gathered  up  eternity, 
Rolling  it  in  the  hollow  of  Thy  hand, — 
Was  there  one  sudden  thrill  in  all  of  Time 
AS  keen  as  that  fierce  tugging  at  Thy  heart, 


192  Eve  Speaks 

When  first  the  new-born  world  was  held  by 

Thee 
Close  to  Thy  breast  to   feel  its  small  heart 

beat. 

Not  all  the  fervor  of  ten  million  Springs 
Moved  Thee  so  much,  because  it  was  so  weak. 
Errant  and  spoiled,  untamed  and  contrary, 
Thou  sawest  it  grow,  in  fear  no  less  than  pride. 
It   was   Thy   pampered   child,    Thy    favorite 

star.  .  . 

God,  so  it  was  with  Adam — he  was  mine. 
Mine  to  protect,  to  nurture,  to  impel; 
My  lord  and  lover,  yes;  but  first  my  child. 
Man  remains  Man,  but  Woman  is  the  Mother. 
There  is  no  mystery  she  dare  not  read; 
No  fearful  fruit  can  grow  but  she  must  taste; 
No  secret  knowledge  can  be  held  from  her ; 
For  she  must  learn  all  things  that  she  may 

teach. 

How  wilt  Thou  judge  me  then,  who  am,  like 

Thee, 

Creator,  shaper  of  man's  destinies.  .  . 
Aye,  more,  I  made  their  purpose  vaster  still, 


Two  Rebels  193 

Thou  wouldst  have  left  them  in  a  torpid 
Eden — 

I  sent  them  out  to  grapple  with  the  world ! 

I  give  Thee  back  Thy  planet  now,  O  God, 

An  earth  made  strong  by  disobedience; 

Resplendent,  built  with  fire  and  furious  dreams. 

A  world  no  angel  host  could  hope  to  shape ; 

Invulnerable,  spacious  and  erect. 

Not  a  vast  garden  rich  with  futile  charm ; 

But  streaming  continents  and  crowded  seas, 

Extravagant  cities,  marshaled  mountain- 
chains, 

And  every  windy  corner  of  the  air 

Filled  with  the  excellent  enterprise  of  man. 

A  world  both  promise  and  fulfilment. — See, 

Men's  thoughts  translated  into  lights  and 
towers  ; 

Visions  uplifted  into  stone  and  steel : 

Labor  and  Life,  a  seething  hymn  of  praise. 

This  is  Thy  clamorous  and  thundering  clay; 

This,  Thy  created,  groping  world — and 
mine.  .  . 

Pause,  God,  and  ponder  ere  Thou  judgest  me. 


MOSES   ON  SINAI 

ONCE  more  my  solitudes ; 

Once  more  the  quiet  business  of  the  earth. 

After  the  savage  heat, 

To  come  to  this  again ; 

After  the  scorn  and  shouting  ignorance, 

To  feel  the  comfort  of  the  whispering  grass, 

The  sun's  concern,  the  smoothing  little  winds, 

The  green  and  silent  sympathy  of  trees. 

Here  I  am  cool  again.  .  . 

Last  week — or  was  it  yesterday — I  sat 

Here,  on  this  very  rock,  another  man; 

A  disillusioned  leader,  a  lost  hope, 

A  doubter  struggling  with  a  dogmatist. 

Laws?    Were  there  laws  enough?    Too  many 

...  or  too  few?  .   .   . 
With  Nature's  own  commands  what  call  was 

there 

For  me  to  fix  and  formulate  ? 
194 


Two  Rebels  195 

Man  was  not  made  to  live  with  barren  laws — 
And  yet  to  live  without  them  ?  .  .   . 

At  the  foot 

Of  this  impassive  hill  the  tablets  lay; 
The  broken  fragments  shining  at  the  sun. 
Was  this  the  end  of  liberty,  to  break 
And  splinter  at  an  idol's  golden  feet  ? 
Had  I  been  led  to  lead  them  all  to  this  ?  .   .   . 

Glad  to  escape  the  mill-race  of  my  thoughts 
My  mind  ran  back  to  Egypt,  to  the  fields 
Where,  as  a  boy,  I  saw  my  people  working 
Dumbly  and  in  their  chains. 
At  first  I  could  not  see  their  faces,  they 
Were  turned  away  from  me  and  toward  the 

ground ; 

All  that  I  saw  was  backs,  great,  oily  backs 
And  broad  and  bleeding  shoulders; 
Arms  that  were  made  to  thresh  like  flails 
And  bodies  scarred  with  whips  and  lined  with 

hate. 

And  then  I  saw  their  eyes — such  dull  and  large 
Pathetic  eyes  that  showed  the  soul  of  man 
Stunted  into  a  child's  by  slavery. 


196  Moses  on  Sinai 

My  people !    Cowed  and  broken  in  their  youth ! 
A  race  of  leaders  stumbling  in  the  yoke; 
Ox-like,    submissive — could    these    things    be 

Jews? 

These,  the  appointed  scatterers  of  the  flame? 
Something  leaped  up  and  roused  me  like  a  cry, 
Tightening  every  nerve  with  one  resolve — 
To  square  those  shoulders,  straighten  up  that 

back; 
Send   the   proud   vigor   singing  through   the 

blood  ; 

To  wake  the  kings  and  prophets  in  their  bones, 
To  set  my  people  free ! 

How  slow  they  crept, 

Those  plodding  years,  when  I  ranged  through 

the  land, 

Appealing,  storming,  urging  and  reviling 
At  little  gatherings  and  gaping  crowds, 
In  markets,  alleys  and  the  open  fields, 
"  Workers   rebel !     Rise  and  strike  off  your 

chains ! 

There  is  no  freedom  till  the  hands  are  free !  " 
And  to  this  rallying  call  they  came  at  last, 


Two  Rebels  197 

Slowly  and  doggedly, — but  still  they  came ; 
Night  after  night  they  met,  year  after  year. 
Singly,  in  groups,  by  hundreds,  till  they  stood 
A  race  of  toilers  strengthened  by  a  dream, 
A  mighty  army  gathered  by  a  word 
And  waiting  for  the  word  to  be  a  deed, 
To  call  them  into  action.    Then  it  came, 
The  summons — and  they  followed  like  a  fire, 
Followed  it  out  of  Egypt,  out  of  bondage ; 
A  sudden  strike  toward  liberty. 

Out  of  the  land 
They   walked   and    left   the   harrow    in   the 

field, 

The  huge  stone  swinging  in  the  idle  crane, 
The  mortar  in  the  trough,  the  rusty  clay 
Heaped  up  before  the  buildings — left  it  all 
And  went  into  the  desert,  heads  erect, 
Out  of  the  darkness  toward  a  struggling  dawn. 

A  while  the  vision  drove  them;  they  breathed 

deep, 

Filled  with  the  whole  adventure  of  the  flight, 
The  gaiety  of  action,  the  relief 


198  Moses  on  Sinai 

Of  stretching  spaces  after  servitude.  .   . 
And  then  the  murmurs   started,   grumblings 

rose; 

Even  the  elders  argued  and  complained : 
Why  had  I  brought  them  here ;  why  had  they 

come 
To  this  dry  plain  ?    What  spell  had  made  them 

leave 
Their  clustered  homes  where  they  at  least  could 

hear 

The  happy  noise  of  trade ;  the  pleasant  hum 
A  city  makes  at  night;  the  sound  of  wheels; 
Or  smell  all  day  the  sweet  and  acrid  smells 
Of  crowded  streets  made  pungent  by  the  blend 
Of  wines  and  parchment,  perfume,  dust,  and 

spice. 

Or  let  the  eye  grow  dizzy  with  the  blaze 
Of  brilliant  silks,  where  every  flaming  booth 
Flung  out  its  colors  like  a  flag  of  joy. 
Lead  us,  they  pleaded,  back  to  this — 
Back  to  the  cheer  and  comfort  of  our  bonds; 
We  are  not  ready  for  our  bleak  release. 
A  happy  slave,  they  cried,  is  better  than 
A  miserable  freeman.    Take  us  back. 


Two  Rebels  199 

Anger  surged  through  me  first.    I  clenched  my 

fists 

And  swore  they  needed  to  be  whipped,  not  led. 
Unworthy  and  ungrateful,  they  should  go 
Back  to  their  burdens,  back  beneath  the  yoke, 
Teamed  with  their  brother  beasts.    You  fools, 

I  stormed, 

You  cattle,  you  shall  bellow  louder  still; 
You  shall  go  back  to  Egypt — and  alone ! 

And  then  I  saw  their  eyes  again,  those  deep 

And  frightened  eyes.    I  knew  them  all 

For  what  they  were — children  and  gropers; 

yes, 
A   tribe   of   children   stumbling   through   the 

night. 

They  needed  hands  to  help  them,  posts  to  guide 
White  clouds  by  daylight,  fires  through  the 

dark. 
Something  to  shape  their  desperate  want — a 

Law! 

So,  on  this  very  rock,  I  sat  and  carved 
Their  human  need,    Sharpening  dull  desires 


2OO  Moses  on  Sinai 

To  ten  commandments,  ten  austere  beliefs 
That  they  could  aim  at,   cling  to,   struggle 

toward. 
What  days  I  worked — choosing  and  cutting 

down, 

Making  a  god  of  laws  to  fit  their  minds; 
One  they  might  grasp  and  cherish  as  their 

own.  .  . 
And  then  I  brought  the  tablets  down  the  hill. 

As  I  went  down,  the  skies  became  a  torch ; 
The  world  poured  gold  about  my  feet,  a  shower 
Of  sunlight  turned  the  fields  to  topaz  lakes 
Washed  with  a  foam  of  daisies;  sudden  rocks 
Sparkled    with    brilliance    from    a    thousand 

facets 

And  the  whole  plain  shone  like  a  yellow  sea. 
And  what  were  these  that  danced,  like  bronze 

in  motion, 
The    sunlight   glancing    from   their    polished 

thighs, 

Those  golden  men  about  a  golden  calf, — 
They  were  my  people !  .  .  .  All  the  glory  died, 
The  sunlight  tarnished,  and  I  only  saw 


Two  Rebels  201 

A  herd  of  silly  tribesmen  singing  songs 
And  romping  round  an  idol  mostly  brass, 
Hailing  the  rough-cast  fetish  as  a  god. 
Foolish  and  savage !    Would  they  never  learn ! 
I  thundered  at  them,  elbowed  through  the  mob 
And  hurled  my  tablets  at  their  shining  toy. 
I  looked  to  see  the  idol  fall — instead 
It  was  the  stone  that  broke;  the  tablet  crashed 
And  split  in  fragments,  scattering  the  laws 
At  their  astonished  feet.    Was  it  a  sign; 
A  symbol  for  the  future  ?    Could  man  live 
Always  with  threatening  strictures  and  taboos  ? 
Or  must  the  stony  admonitions  break 
Upon  the  golden  frenzy  of  his  joy?  .   .   . 
But  now  the  tumult  ceased,  the  cymbals  fell, 
And  even  Miriam  floating  among  the  girls 
As  lightly  as  the  moon  among  the  stars, 
Grew  frightened  at  my  frown,  and  ran  to  me, 
Joining  the  trembling  and  bewildered  crowd. 
Some  half -unconscious  sense  of  sudden  shame, 
A  swift  revulsion  from  their  lusty  mirth 
Swept  them  above  themselves  and  so  toward 

me. 
Caught  between  anger  and  astonishment 


2O2  Moses  on  Sinai 

I  looked  at  them,  while  youths  and  bearded 
men 

Turned  red  and  clung  about  my  knees  and 
cried, 

"  Lift  up  thy  rod,  oh  Moses,  we  beseech, 

And  smite  us  for  our  sins.     Give  your  com 
mands 

And  we  shall  follow  them  and  keep  the  Word 

That  drives  us  on  with  power  and  punishment. 

Go  up  into  the  mountain  and  bring  down 

Your  laws  for  us  again." 

Bewildered  still, 

I  left  them  clustered  meekly  at  the  base 

And  started  up  the  rocky  climb  once  more. 

II 

And  now — here  in  my  spacious  solitudes 
With  sagely  nodding  flowers  at  my  feet, 
And  the  untroubled  skies  above  me,  I  am  cool ; 
Soothed  by  a  new  and  quiet  confidence. 
Seeing  the  lawless  victories  of  the  earth, 
The  sweet  rebellion  of  the  vagrant  rose, 
The  calm  and  sweeping  triumph  of  the  grass, 
The  tiger's  leap,  the  mating  of  the  birds, 


Two  Rebels  203 

The  strength  of  streams,  the  heedless  laugh  of 
winds, 

And  all  the  happy  anarchy  of  life, 

I  saw  the  world  held  in  compassionate  hands; 

And  in  its  singing  beauty  I  could  feel 

The  great  beneficence  that  stirred  it  all. 

I  knew  that  Life  was  good — and  needed  noth 
ing  more.  .  . 

And  yet  these  laws :  my  people  needed  them 
For  they  were  children  still,  the  loosened  bonds 
Had  freed  their  hands,  but  not  their  hearts ; 
Their  souls  were  yet  in  bondage,  yet  enslaved ; 
They  still  were  chained  to  lust  and  apathy, 
Chained  to  a  wheel  of  fantasies  and  fears, 
Chained  to  themselves.    They  were  not  ready 

for 

The  blaze  of  freedom  with  its  fierce  white  light. 
There  should  be  strengthening  struggle;  they 

must  learn 

Control  before  they  could  go  uncontrolled. 
Doubt  and  disaster  first,  before  the  time 
When  every  man  may  take  the  old  commands 
And  break  them  lightly  as  a  hoop  of  straw; 


2O4  Moses  on  Sinai 

When  men  can  walk  upright  and  hand  in  hand 
With  their  desires,  fearless,  frank,  and  high ; 
True  to  their  own  ennobled  impulses. 
Obedient  only  to  the  law  of  Beauty, 
Growing  as  clean  and  freely  as  a  tree; 
Sharing  the  mandates  heeded  by  the  sun, 
And  kept,  in  splendor  and  authority, 
By  all  the  tides  and  every  rushing  star. 

The  time  would  come — but  not  for  those  alive. 

Meanwhile — the  Law.  .  . 

Here  is  a  smooth,  flat  stone. 

It  takes  the  chisel  nicely  and  the  words 

Will  stand  out  bright  and  boldly.    To  begin: 

I  am  the  Lord  thy  God,  which  have  brought 

thee 
Out  of  the  land  of  Egypt,  out  of  the  house  of 

bondage.  .  . 


REVEILLE 

What  sudden  bugle  calls  us  in  the  night 
And  wakes  us  from  a  dream  that  we  had 

shaped; 

Flinging  us  sharply  up  against  a  fight 
We  thought  we  had  escaped. 

It  is  no  easy  waking,  and  we  win 

No  final  peace;  our  victories  are  few. 
But  still  imperative  forces  pull  us  in 

And  sweep  us  somehow  through. 

Summoned  by  a  supreme  and  confident  power 
That  wakes  our  sleeping  courage  like  a  blow, 
We  rise,  half-shaken,  to  the  challenging  hour, 
And  answer  it — and  go.  .  . 


205 


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